* 

QU I S A  NTE 

/     ANTHONY  HOPE 


Ex  Libris 
C.  K.  OGDEN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§ 

Quisante* 

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§ 


A       NOVEL 


Author    of 

"The    Prisoner   of  Zenda,"    "Phroso," 
"The    Heart    of    Princess    Osra,"    etc. 


j$eto 

Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 

Publishers 


Copyright,  1900. 
By  A.  H.  HAWKINS. 


College 
Library 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

i.  DICK  BENYON'S  OUTSIDER  ....................  i 

II.  MOMENTS  ................................  l6 

III.  SANDRO's  WAY  .............................  31 

iv.  HE'S    COMING  !  .  .  .'  .........................  46 

V.  WHIMSY-WHAMSIES  .........................  6$ 

VI.  ON    DUTY     HILL  ............................  84 

VII.  ADVICE    FROM    AUNT  MARIA  ...................  IOI 

VIII.  CONTRA   MUNDUM  ...........................  I2O 

IX.  LEAD   US    NOT  -  ...........................  137 

X.  PRACTICAL    POLITICS  ........................  155 

XI.  SEVENTY-SEVEN  AND  SUSY   SINNETT.  ............  176 

XII.  A  HIGHLY    CORRECT    ATTITUDE  ................  196 

XIII.  NOT  SUPERHUMAN  ..........................  2  1  5 

XIV.  OPEN  EYES  ................................  235 

XV.  A   STRANGE    IDEA  ...........................  257 

XVI.  THE    IRREVOCABLE  ..........................  279 

XVII.  DONE    FOR  ?  ...............................  3OI 

XVIII.  FOR    LACK    OF   LOVE  ?  ........................  32  1 

XIX.  DEATH     DEFIED  ...........................  339 

XX.  THE    QUIET    LIFE    TO-MORROW  .................  355 

XXI.     A    RELICT  ................................  371 


1042008 


QUISANTE. 

CHAPTER  I. 
DICK  BENYON'S  OUTSIDER. 

A  SHRUNKEN  sallow  old  lady,  dressed  in  rusty 
ill-shaped  black  and  adorned  with  an  evidently  false 
'  front '  of  fair  hair,  sat  in  a  tiny  flat  whose  windows 
overlooked  Hyde  Park  from  south  to  north.  She 
was  listening  to  a  tall  loose-built  dark  young  man 
who  walked  restlessly  about  the  little  room  as  he 
jerked  out  his  thoughts  and  challenged  the  expres- 
sion of  hers.  She  had  known  him  since  he  was  a 
baby,  had  brought  him  up  from  childhood,  had 
always  served  him,  always  believed  in  him,  never 
liked  him,  never  offered  her  love  nor  conciliated  his. 
His  father  even,  her  only  brother  Raphael  Quisant£, 
she  had  not  loved  ;  but  she  had.  respected  Raphael. 
Alexander — Sandro,  as  she  alone  of  all  the  world 
called  him — she  neither  loved  nor  respected ;  him 
she  only  admired  and  believed  in.  He  knew  his 
aunt's  feelings  well  enough ;  she  was  his  ally,  not 
his  friend  ;  kinship  bound  them,  not  affection  ;  for 
his  brain's  sake  and  their  common  blood  she  was 
his  servant,  his  heart  she  left  alone. 

I 


2  QUISANTE". 

Thus  aware  of  the  truth,  he  felt  no  obligation 
towards  her,  not  even  when,  as  now,  he  came  to  ask 
money  of  her  ;  what  else  should  she  do  with  her 
money,  where  else  lay  either  her  duty  or  her  incli- 
nation? She  did  not  love  him,  but  he  was  her  one 
interest,  the  only  tie  that  united  her  with  the  living 
moving  world  and  the  alluring  future  years,  more 
precious  to  her  since  she  could  see  so  few  of  them. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  make  myself  uncomfortable," 
said  Miss  Quisante\  "How  much  do  you  want?" 
He  stopped  and  turned  round  quickly  with  a  gleam 
of  eagerness  in  his  eyes,  as  though  he  had  a  vision 
of  much  wealth.  "  No,  no,"  she  added  with  a  surly 
chuckle,  "  the  least  you'll  take  is  the  most  I'll  give." 

"  I  owe  money." 

"  Who  to  ?  "  she  asked,  setting  her  cap  uncom- 
promisingly straight.  "Jews?" 

"  No.     Dick  Benyon." 

"  That  money  you'll  never  pay.  I  shan't  con- 
sider that." 

The  young  man's  eyes  rested  on  her  in  a  long 
sombre  glance ;  he  seemed  annoyed  but  not  indig- 
nant, like  a  lawyer  whose  formal  plea  is  brushed  aside 
somewhat  contemptuously  by  an  impatient  truth- 
loving  judge. 

"  You've  got  five  hundred  a  year  or  thereabouts," 
she  went  on,  "  and  no  wife." 

He  threw  himself  into  a  chair ;  his  face  broke  into 
a  sudden  smile,  curiously  attractive,  although  neither 
sweet  nor  markedly  sincere.  "  Exactly,  '  he  said. 
"  No  wife.  Well,  shall  I  get  one  with  five  hundred  a 


DICK  BENYON'S  OUTSIDER.  3 

year?"  He  laughed  a  little.  "An  election  any 
fine  day  would  leave  me  penniless,"  he  added. 

"  There's  Dick  Benyon,"  observed  the  old  lady. 

"  They  talk  about  that  too  much  already,"  said 
Quisante'. 

"  Come,  Sandro,  you're  not  sensitive." 

"And  Lady  Richard  hates  me.  Besides  if  you 
want  to  impress  fools,  you  must  respect  their 
prejudices.  Give  me  a  thousand  a  year  ;  for  the 
present,  you  know." 

He  asked  nearly  half  the  old  lady's  income  ;  she 
sighed  in  relief.  "  Very  well,  a  thousand  a  year," 
she  said.  "  Make  a  good  show  with  it.  Live  hand- 
somely. It'll  pay  you  to  live  handsomely." 

A  genuine  unmistakable  surprise  showed  itself  on 
his  face ;  now  there  was  even  the  indignation  which 
a  reference  to  non-payment  of  debts  had  failed  to 
elicit. 

"  I  shall  do  something  with  it,  you  might  know 
that,"  he  said  resentfully. 

"  Something  honest,  I  mean." 

"What?" 

"  Well,  something  not  criminal,"  she  amended, 
chuckling  again.  "  I'm  sorry  to  seem  to  know  you 
so  well,"  she  added. 

"  Oh,  we  know  one  another  pretty  well,"  said  he 
with  a  nod.  "  Never  the  jam  without  the  powder 
from  you." 

"  But  always  the  jam,"  said  old  Maria.  "  And 
you'll  find  the  world  a  good  deal  like  your  aunt, 
Sandro." 


4  QUISANT£. 

An  odd  half-cunning  half-eager  gleam  shot  across 
his  eyes. 

"  A  man  finds  the  world  what  he  makes  it,"  he 
said.  He  rose,  came  and  stood  over  her,  and  went 
on,  laughing.  "  But  the  devil  makes  an  aunt  once 
and  for  all,  and  won't  let  one  touch  his  handi- 
work." 

"  You  can  touch  her  savings,  though !  " 
He   blazed  out  into  a  sudden   defiance.     "Oh, 
refuse   if  you   like.     I    can   manage   without   you. 
You're  not  essential  to  me." 

She  smiled,  her  thin  lips  setting  in  a  wry  curve. 
Now  and  then  it  seemed  hard  that  there  could  be  no 
affection  between  her  and  the  one  being  whom  the 
course  of  events  plainly  suggested  for  her  love.  But, 
as  Sandro  said,  they  knew  one  another  very  well. 
In  the  result  she  felt  entitled  to  assume  no  airs  of 
superiority  ;  he  had  not  been  a  dutiful  or  a  grateful 
nephew,  she  had  not  been  a  devoted  or  a  patient 
aunt ;  as  she  looked  back,  she  was  obliged  to  re- 
member one  or  two  occasions  when  he  had  driven  or 
betrayed  her  into  a  severity  of  which  she  did  not 
willingly  think.  This  reflection  dictated  the  words 
with  which  she  met  his  outburst. 

"  You  can  tell  your  story  on  Judgment  Day  and  I'll 
tell  mine,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  neither  of  'em  will  lose  in 
the  telling,  I'll  be  bound.  Meanwhile  let's  be " 

"  Friends  ?  "  he  suggested  with  an  obvious  but  not 
ill-natured  sneer. 

"  Lord,  no  !  Whatever  you  like  !  Banker  and 
client,  debtor  and  creditor,  actor  and  audience? 


DICK  BENYON'S  OUTSIDER.  5 

Take  your  choice — and  send  me  your  bank's 
address." 

He  nodded  slightly,  as  though  he  concluded  a 
bargain,  not  at  all  as  though  he  acknowledged 
a  favour.  Yet  he  remarked  in  a  ruminative  tone, 
"  I  shall  be  very  glad  of  the  money." 

A  moment's  pause  followed.  Then  Miss  Quisant£ 
observed  reluctantly, 

"  The  only  thing  I  ever  care  to  know  about  you 
is  what  you're  planning,  Sandro.  Don't  I  earn  that 
by  my  thousand  a  year  ?  " 

"  Well,  here  you  are.  '  I'm  started,  thanks  to  Dick 
Benyon  and  myself.  I've  got  my  seat,  I  can  go  on 
now.  But  I'm  an  outsider  still."  He  paused  a 
moment.  "  I  feel  that ;  Benyon  feels  it  too.  I  want 
to  obviate  it  a  bit.  I  mean  to  marry." 

"An  insider?"  asked  the  old  lady.  She  looked 
at  him  steadily.  "  Your  taste's  too  bad,"  she  said  ; 
he  was  certainly  dressed  in  a  rather  bizarre  way. 
"  And  your  manners,"  she  added.  "  She  won't  have 
you,"  she  ended.  Quisant£  took  no  notice  and 
seemed  not  to  hear ;  he  stood  quite  still  by  the 
window,  staring  over  the  park.  "  Besides  she'll 
know  what  you  want  her  for." 

He  wheeled  round  suddenly  and  looked  down  at 
his  aunt.  His  face  was  softer,  the  cunningness  had 
gone  from  his  smile,  his  eyes  seemed  larger,  clearer, 
even  (by  a  queer  delusion  of  sight)  better  set  and 
wider  apart. 

"Yes,  I'll  show  her  that,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
with  a  new  richness  of  tone. 


6  QUISANTE". 

Old  Maria  looked  up  at  him  with  an  air  of 
surprise. 

"  You  do  want  her  for  that  ?  As  a  help,  I  mean  ?  " 
she  asked. 

His  lips  just  moved  to  answer  "  Yes."  Aunt 
Maria's  eyes  did  not  leave  his  face.  She  remem- 
bered that  when  he  had  come  before  to  talk  about 
contesting  the  seat  in  Parliament  he  had  now  won, 
there  had  been  a  moment  (poised  between  long 
periods  of  calculation  and  elaborate  forecasts  of 
personal  advantage)  in  which  his  face  had  taken  on 
the  same  soft  light,  the  same  inspiration. 

"You  odd  creature!"  she  murmured  gently. 
"  She's  handsome,  I  suppose?" 

"  Superb— better  than  that." 

"  A  swell  ?  "  asked  old  Maria  scornfully. 

"  Yes,"  he  nodded. 

His  aunt  laughed.  "  A  Queen  among  women  ?" 
was  the  form  her  last  question  took. 

"An  Empress,"  said  Alexander  Quisante",  the 
more  ornate  title  bursting  gorgeously  from  his  lips. 

"  Just  the  woman  for  you  then  !  "  remarked  Aunt 
Maria.  A  stranger  would  have  heard  nothing  in  her 
tone  save  mockery.  Quisant6  heard  more,  or  did 
not  hear  that  at  all.  He  nodded  again  quite  gravely, 
and  turned  back  to  the  window.  There  were  two 
reasonable  views  of  the  matter  ;  either  the  lady  was 
not  what  Quisant£  declared  her,  or  if  she  were  she 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  Quisante\  But 
Aunt  Maria  reserved  her  opinion  ;  she  was  prepared 
to  find  neither  of  these  alternatives  correct. 


DICK  BENYON'S  OUTSIDER.  7 

For  there  was  something  remarkable  about 
Sandro  ;  the  knowledge  that  had  been  hers  so  long 
promised  fair  to  become  the  world's  discovery. 
Society  was  travelling  towards  Aunt  Maria's  opin- 
ion, moved  thereto  not  so  much  by  a  signally  suc- 
cessful election  fight,  nor  even  by  a  knack  of  dis- 
tracting attention  from  others  and  fixing  it  on 
himself,  as  by  the  monstrous  hold  the  young  man 
had  obtained  and  contrived  to  keep  over  Dick 
Benyon.  Dick  was  not  a  fool ;  here  ended  his  like- 
ness to  Quisante;  here  surely  ought  to  end  his 
sympathy  with  that  aspiring  person?  But  there 
was  much  more  between  them ;  society  could  see 
that  for  itself,  while  doubters  found  no  difficulty  in 
overhearing  Lady  Richard's  open  lamentations. 
"  If  Dick  had  known  him  at  school  or  at  Cam- 
bridge  "  "  If  he  was  somebody  very  distin- 
guished  "  "  If  he  was  even  a  gentleman " 

Eloquent  beginnings  of  unfinished  sentences  flowed 
with  expressive  freedom  from  Amy  Benyon's  pretty 
lips.  "  I  don't  want  to  think  my  husband  mad,"  she 
observed  pathetically  to  Weston  Marchmont,  him- 
self one  of  the  brightest  hopes  of  that  party  which 
Dick  Benyon  was  understood  to  consider  in  need  of 
a  future  leader.  Was  that  leader  to  be  Quisante"  ? 
Manners,  not  genius,  Amy  declared  to  be  the  first 
essential.  "  And  I  don't  believe  he's  got  genius," 
she  added  hopefully ;  that  he  had  no  manners  did 
not  need  demonstration  to  Marchmont,  whose  own 
were  so  exquisite  as  to  form  a  ready-make  standard. 

And  it  was  not  only  Dick.     Jimmy  was  as  bad. 


8  QUISANT£. 

Nobody  valued  Jimmy's  intellect,  but  every  one 
had  been  prepared  to  repose  securely  on  the  bed- 
rock of  his  prejudices.  He  was  as  infatuated  as  his 
brother;  Quisant£  had  swept  away  the  prejudices. 
The  brethren  were  united  in  an  effort  to  foist 
their  man  into  every  circle  and  every  position  where 
he  seemed  to  be  least  wanted  ;  to  this  end  they 
devoted  time,  their  social  reputation,  enthusiasm, 
and,  as  old  Maria  knew,  hard  money.  They  were 
triple-armed  in  confidence.  Jimmy  met  remon- 
strances with  a  quiet  shrug;  Dick  had  one  answer, 
always  the  same,  given  in  the  same  way — a  confident 
assertion,  limited  and  followed,  an  instant  later,  by 
one  obvious  condition,  seemingly  not  necessary  to 
express.  "  You'll  see,  if  he  lives,"  he  replied  in- 
variably, when  people  asked  him  what  there  was 
after  all  in  Mr.  Quisant£.  Their  friends  could  only 
wonder,  asking  plaintively  what  the  Duke  thought 
of  his  brothers'  proceedings.  The  Duke,  however, 
made  no  sign  ;  making  no  sign  ranked  as  a  charac- 
teristic of  the  Duke's. 

When  Lady  Richard  discussed  this  situation  with 
her  friends  the  Gaston  girls,  she  gained  hearty  sym- 
pathy from  Fanny,  but  from  May  no  more  than  a 
mocking  half-sincere  curiosity. 

"  Is  it  possible  for  a  man  to  like  both  me  and  Mr. 
Quisante  ?  "  Lady  Richard  asked.  "  And  after  all 
Dick  does  like  me  very  much." 

"  Likes  both  his  wife  and  Mr.  Quisante  !  What 
a  man  for  paradoxes  !  "  May  murmured. 

"  Jimmy's  worse  if  anything,"  the  aggrieved  wife 


DICK  BENYON'S  OUTSIDER.  9 

went  on.  This  remark  was  levelled  straight  at 
Fanny  ;  Jimmy  being  understood  to  like  Fanny,  a 
parallel  problem  presented  itself.  Fanny  recog- 
nized it  but,  not  choosing  to  acknowledge  Jimmy's 
devotion,  met  it  by  referring  to  Marchmont's  openly 
professed  inability  to  tolerate  Quisant6. 

"  I  always  go  by  Mr.  Marchmont's  judgment  in 
a  thing  like  that,"  she  said.  "  He's  infallible." 

"  There's  no  need  of  infallibility,  my  dear,"  ob- 
served Lady  Richard  irritably.  "  Ordinary  common 
sense  is  quite  enough."  She  turned  suddenly  on 
May.  "  You  talked  to  him  for  nearly  an  hour  the 
other  night,"  she  said. 

"  Yes — how  you  could  !  "  sighed  Fanny. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it.     He  talked  to  me." 

"  About  those  great  schemes  that  he's  filled  poor 
dear  Dick's  head  with  ?  Not  that  I  doubt  he's  got 
plenty  of  schemes — of  a  sort  you  know." 

"  He  didn't  talk  schemes,"  said  Lady  May.  "  He 
was  worse  than  that." 

"  What  did  he  do?"  asked  her  sister. 

"  Flirted." 

A  sort  of  gasp  broke  from  Lady  Richard's  lips  ; 
she  gazed  helplessly  at  her  friends.  Fanny  began 
to  laugh.  May  preserved  a  meditative  seriousness ; 
she  seemed  to  be  reviewing  Quisant£'s  efforts  in  a 
judicial  spirit. 

"  Well  ? "  said  Lady  Richard  after  the  proper 
pause. 

"  Oh  well,  he  was  atrocious,  of  course,"  May  ad- 
mitted ;  her  tone,  however,  expressed  a  reluctant 


io  QUISANT£. 

homage  to  truth  rather  than  any  resentment.     "  He 
doesn't  know  how  to  do  it  in  the  least." 

"  He  doesn't  know  how  to  do  anything,"  Lady 
Richard  declared. 

"  Most  men  are  either  elephantine  or  serpentine," 
said  Fanny.  "  Which  was  he,  dear?" 

"  I  don't  think  either." 

"  Porcine  ?  "  asked  Lady  Richard. 

"  No.     I  haven't  got  an  animal  for  him.     Well, 
yes,  he  was  a  little    weaselly  perhaps.     But — 
She  glanced  at  Lady  Richard  as  she  paused,  and 
then  appeared  to  think  that  she  would  say  no  more  ; 
she  frowned  slightly  and  then  smiled. 

"  I  like  his  cheek  !  "  exclaimed  Fanny  with  a  sim- 
plicity that  had  survived  the  schoolroom. 

Lady  Richard  screwed  her  small  straight  features 
into  wrinkles  of  disgust  and  a  shrug  seemed  to  run 
all  over  her  little  trim  smartly-gowned  figure  ;  no 
presumption  could  astonish  her  in  Quisant£. 

"  Why  in  the  world  did  you  listen  to  him,  May  ?  " 
Fanny  went  on. 

"  He  interested  me.  And  every  now  and  then  he 
was  objectionable  in  rather  an  original  way." 

With  another  shrug,  inspired  this  time  by  her 
friend's  mental  vagaries,  Lady  Richard  diverged  to 
another  point. 

"  And  that  was  where  you  were  all  the  time  Wes- 
ton  Marchmont  was  looking  for  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

May  began  to  laugh.  "  Somehow  I'm  generally 
somewhere  else  when  Mr.  Marchmont  looks  for 
me,"  she  said.  "  It  isn't  deliberate,  really ;  I  like 


DICK  BENYON'S  OUTSIDER.  11 

him  very  much,  but  when  he  comes  near  me,  some 
perverse  fate  seems  to  set  my  legs  moving  in  the 
opposite  direction." 

"  Well,  Alexander  Quisante"'s  a  perverse  fate,  if 
you  like,"  said  Lady  Richard. 

"  It's  curious  how  there  are  people  one's  like  that 
towards.  You're  very  fond  of  them,  but  it  seerns 
quite  certain  that  you'll  never  get  much  nearer  to 
them.  Is  it  fate  ?  Or  is  it  that  in  the  end  there's 
a — a  solution  of  sympathy,  a  break  somewhere,  so 
that  you  stop  just  short  of  finding  them  absolutely 
satisfying  ?  " 

Neither  of  her  friends  answered  her.  Lady 
Richard  did  not  deal  in  speculations ;  Fanny  pre- 
ferred not  to  discuss,  even  indirectly,  her  sister's 
feelings  towards  Marchmont ;  they  bred  in  her  a  mix- 
ture of  resentment  and  relief  too  complicated  for 
public  reference.  It  was  certainly  true  enough 
that  he  and  May  got  no  nearer  to  one  another ;  if 
the  break  referred  to  existed  somewhere,  its  effect 
was  very  plain ;  how  could  it  display  itself  more 
strikingly  than  in  making  the  lady  prefer  Quisante"s 
weaselly  flirtation  to  the  accomplished  and  enviable 
homage  of  Weston  Marchmont  ?  And  preferred  it 
she  had,  for  one  hour  of  life  at  least.  Fanny  felt 
the  anger  which  we  suffer  when  another  shows  in- 
difference towards  what  we  should  consider  great 
good  fortune. 

But  indifference  was  not  truly  May's  attitude 
towards  Marchmont.  Nobody,  she  honestly 
thought,  could  be  indifferent  to  him,  to  his  hand- 


12  QUISANT£. 

someness,  his  grace  and  refinement,  the  fine  temper 
of  his  mind,  his  indubitable  superiority  of  intellect; 
in  everything  he  was  immeasurably  above  the  or- 
dinary run  of  her  acquaintance,  the  well-groomed 
inconsiderables  of  whom  she  knew  such  a  number. 
Being  accustomed  to  look  this  world  in  the  face 
unblinkingly,  she  did  not  hesitate  to  add  that  he 
possessed  great  wealth  and  the  prospect  of  a  high 
career.  He  was  all,  and  indeed  rather  more,  than 
she,  widowed  Lady  Attlebridge's  slenderly  dow- 
ered daughter,  had  any  reason  to  expect.  She 
wanted  to  expect  no  more,  if  possible  really  to  re- 
gard this  opportunity  as  greater  luck  than  she  had 
a  right  to  anticipate.  The  dissatisfaction  which  she 
sought  to  explain  by  talking  of  a  solution  of  sym- 
pathy was  very  obstinate,  but  justice  set  the  re- 
sponsibility down  to  her  account,  not  to  his ;  ana- 
lysing her  temperament,  without  excusing  it,  she 
found  a  spirit  of  adventure  and  experiment — or 
should  she  say  of  restlessness  and  levity? — which 
Marchmont  did  not  minister  to  nor  yet  assuage. 
The  only  pleasure  that  lay  in  this  discovery  came 
from  the  fact  that  it  was  so  opposed  to  the  general 
idea  about  her.  For  it  was  her  lot  to  be  exalted 
into  a  type  of  the  splendid  calm  patrician  maiden. 
In  that  sort  of  vein  her  friends  spoke  of  her  when 
they  were  not  very  intimate,  in  that  sort  of  lan- 
guage she  saw  herself  described  in  gushing  para- 
graphs that  chronicled  the  doings  of  her  class. 
Stately,  gracious,  even  queenly,  were  epithets  which 
were  not  spared  her ;  it  would  have  been  refreshing 


DICK  BENYON'S  OUTSIDER.  13 

to  find  some  Diogenes  of  a  journalist  who  would 
have  called  her,  in  round  set  terms,  discontented, 
mutinous,  scornful  of  the  ideal  she  represented,  a 
very  hot-bed  of  the  faults  the  beauty  of  whose  ab- 
sence was  declared  in  her  dignified  demeanour.  Now 
what  May  looked,  that  Fanny  was ;  but  poor 
Fanny,  being  slight  of  build,  small  in  feature,  and 
gay  in  manner,  got  no  credit  for  her  exalted  virtues 
and  could  not  be  pressed  into  service  as  the  type 
of  them.  For  certainly  types  must  look  typical. 
May's  comfort  in  these  circumstances  was  that 
Marchmont's  perfect  breeding  and  instinctive  avoid- 
ance of  display,  of  absurdity,  even  of  betraying  any 
heat  of  emotion,  saved  her  from  the  usual  troubles 
which  an  unsatisfied  lover  entails  on  his  mistress. 
He  looked  for  her  no  doubt,  but  with  no  greater 
visible  perturbation  than  if  she  had  been  his  hand- 
kerchief. 

An  evening  or  two  later  Dick  Benyon  took  her 
in  to  dinner.  Entirely  in  concession  to  him — for  the 
subject  had  passed  from  her  own  thoughts — she 
asked,  "  Well,  how's  your  genius  going  on?"  Be- 
fore the  meal  was  over  she  regretted  her  question. 
It  opened  the  doors  to  Dick's  confused  eloquence 
and  vague  laudations  of  his  protege  ;  putting  Dick 
on  his  defence,  it  involved  an  infinite  discussion  of 
Quisante.  She  was  told  how  Dick  had  picked  him 
up  at  Naples,  gone  to  Pompeii  with  him,  travelled 
home  with  him,  brought  him  and  Jimmy  together, 
and  how  the  three  had  become  friends.  "  And  if 
I'm  a  fool,  my  brother's  not,"  said  Dick.  May 


i4  QUISANT£. 

knew  that  Jimmy  would  shelter  himself  under  a 
plea  couched  in  identical  language.  From  this 
point  Dick  became  less  expansive,  for  at  this  point 
his  own  benefactions  and  services  had  begun.  She 
could  not  get  much  out  of  him,  but  she  found  her- 
self trying  to  worm  out  all  she  could.  Dick  had  no 
objection  to  saying  that  he  had  induced  Quisant6  to 
go  in  for  politics,  and  had  "  squared  "  the  influential 
persons  who  distributed  (so  far  as  a  free  electorate 
might  prove  docile)  seats  in  Parliament.  Rumour 
and  Aunt  Maria  would  have  supplemented  his 
statement  by  telling  of  substantial  aid  given  by  the 
Benyon  brothers.  May,  interested  against  her  wish 
and  irritated  at  her  interest,  yet  not  content,  like 
Dick's  wife,  to  shrug  away  Dick's  aberrations, 
turned  on  him  with  a  sudden,  "  But  why,  why  ? 
Why  do  you  like  him  ?  " 

"  Like  him  !  "  repeated  Dick  half-interrogatively. 
He  did  not  seem  sure  that  his  companion  had 
chosen  the  right,  or  at  any  rate  the  best,  word  to  de- 
scribe his  feelings.  In  response  she  amended  her 
question. 

"  Well,  I  mean,  what  do  you  see  in  him  ?  " 

Here  was  another  fatal  question,  for  Dick  saw 
everything  in  him.  Hastily  cutting  across  the 
eulogies,  she  demanded  particulars — who  was  he, 
where  did  he  come  from,  and  so  forth.  On  these 
heads  Dick's  account  was  scanty  ;  Quisante"s  father 
had  grown  wine  in  Spain  ;  and  Quisant£  himself 
had  an  old  aunt  in  London. 

"Not    much    of   a   genealogy,"    she   suggested. 


DICK  BENYON'S  OUTSIDER.  15 

Dick  was  absurd  enough  to  quote  "Je  suis  un  an- 
cftre."  "  Oh,  if  you're  as  silly  as  that ! "  she  ex- 
claimed with  an  annoyed  laugh. 

"  He's  the  man  we  want." 

"You  and  Jimmy  ?  " 

"  The  country,"  Dick  explained  gravely.  He  had 
plenty  of  humour  for  other  subjects,  but  Quisant6,  it 
seemed,  was  too  sacred.  "  Look  here,"  he  went  on. 
"  Come  and  meet  him  again.  Amy's  going  out 
of  town  next  week  and  we'll  have  a  little  party  for 
him." 

"  That  happens  best  when  Amy's  away  ?  " 

"  Well,  women  are  so " 

"  Yes,  I  know.     I'm  a  woman.     I  won't  come." 

Dick  looked  at  her  not  sourly  but  sadly,  and 
turned  to  his  other  neighbour.  May  was  left  to  sit 
in  silence  for  five  minutes ;  then  a  pause  in  Dick's 
talk  gave  her  time  to  touch  him  lightly  on  the  arm 
and  to  say  when  he  turned,  "  Yes,  I  will,  and  thank 
you." 

But  she  said  nothing  about  the  weaselly  flirtation. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MOMENTS. 

AT  the  little  dinner  which  Lady  Richard's  absence 
rendered  more  easy  there  were  only  the  Benyon 
brothers  (a  wag  had  recently  suggested  that  they 
should  convert  themselves  into  Quisant6  Limited), 
Mrs.  Gellatly,  Morewood  the  painter,  and  the 
honoured  guest.  Morewood  was  there  because  he 
was  painting  a  kit-cat  of  Quisant6  for  the  host 
(Heaven  knew  in  what  corner  Lady  Richard  would 
suffer  it  to  hang),  and  Mrs.  Gellatly  because  she 
had  expressed  a  desire  to  meet  Lady  May  Gaston. 
Quisant£  greeted  May  with  an  elaborate  air  of  re- 
membrance ;  his  handshake  was  so  ornate  as  to  per- 
suade her  that  she  must  always  hate  him,  and  that 
Dick  Benyon  was  as  foolish  as  his  wife  thought 
him.  This  mood  lasted  half  through  dinner  ;  the 
worst  of  Quisante  was  uppermost,  and  the  exhibition 
depressed  the  others.  The  brothers  were  apologetic, 
Mrs.  Gellatly  gallantly  suave  ;  her  much-lined,  still 
pretty  face  worked  in  laborious  smiles  at  every  loud- 
ness  and  every  awkwardness.  Morewood  was  so 
savage  that  an  abrupt  conclusion  of  the  entertain- 
ment threatened  to  be  necessary.  May,  who  had 

previously  decided   that    Mr.    Quisante    would    be 
16 


MOMENTS.  17 

much  better  in  company,  was  travelling  to  the  con- 
elusion  that  he  was  not  nearly  so  trying  when 
alone  ;  to  be  weaselly  is  not  so  bad  as  to  be  incon- 
siderate and  ostentatious. 

Just  then  came  the  change  which  transformed  the 
party.  Somebody  mentioned  Mahomet  ;  More- 
wood,  with  his  love  of  a  paradox,  launched  on  an 
indiscriminate  championship  of  the  Prophet.  Next 
to  believing  in  nobody,  it  was  best,  he  said,  to 
believe  in  Mahomet ;  there,  he  maintained,  you 
got  most  out  of  your  .religion  and  gave  least  to 
it  ;  and  he  defended  the  criterion  with  his  usual 
uncompromising  aggressiveness.  Then  Quisant6 
put  his  arms  on  the  table,  interrupted  More- 
wood  without  apology,  and  began  to  talk.  May 
thought  that  she  would  not  have  known  how  good 
the  talk  was — for  it  came  so  easily — had  she  not 
seen  how  soon  Morewood  became  a  listener,  or  even 
a  foil,  ready  and  content  to  put  his  questions  not 
as  puzzles  but  as  provocatives.  Yet  Morewood  was 
proverbially  conceited,  and  he  was  fully  a  dozen 
years  Quisante's  senior.  She  stole  a  look  round  ; 
the  brothers  were  open-mouthed,  Mrs.  Gellatly 
looked  almost  frightened.  Next  her  eyes  scanned 
Quisante's  face  ;  he  was  not  weaselly  now,  nor 
ostentatious.  His  subject  filled  him  and  lit  him  up  ; 
she  did  not  know  that  he  looked  as  he  had  when  he 
spoke  to  old  Maria  of  his  Empress  among  women, 
but  she  knew  that  he  looked  as  if  nothing  mentally 
small,  nothing  morally  mean,  nothing  that  was  not 
in  some  way  or  other,  for  good  or  evil,  big  and  spa- 


is  QUISANT£. 

cious  could  ever  come  near  him  from  without  or 
proceed  out  from  him. 

She  was  immensely  startled  when,  in  a  pause, 
her  host  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  One  of  his  mo- 
ments !  "  The  phrase  was  to  become  very  famil- 
iar to  her  on  the  lips  of  others,  even  more  in  her 
own  thoughts.  "  His  moments  ! "  It  implied  a 
sort  of  intermittent  inspiration,  as  though  he  were 
some  ancient  prophet  or  mediaeval  fanatic  through 
whose  mouth  Heaven  spoke  sometimes,  leaving 
him  for  the  rest  to  his  own  low  and  carnal  na- 
ture. The  phrase  meant  at  once  a  plenitude  of 
inspiration  and  a  rarity  of  it.  Not  days,  nor  hours, 
but  moments  were  seemingly  what  his  friends 
valued  him  for,  what  his  believers  attached  their 
faith  to,  what  must  (if  anything  could)  outweigh  all 
that  piled  the  scales  so  full  against  him.  An  intense 
curiosity  then  and  there  assailed  her  ;  she  must 
know  more  of  the  man  ;  she  must  launch  a  boat  on 
this  unexplored  ocean — for  the  Benyons  had  not 
navigated  it,  they  only  stood  gaping  on  the  beach. 
Here  was  scope  for  that  unruly  spirit  of  hers  which 
Marchmont's  culture  and  Marchmont's  fascination 
could  neither  minister  to  nor  assuage. 

She  was  gazing  intently  at  Quisante1  when  she 
became  conscious  of  Mrs.  Gellatly's  eyes  on  her. 
Mrs.  Gellatly  looked  frightened  still ;  accustomed 
tactfully  to  screen  awkwardness,  she  was  rather  at 
a  loss  in  the  face  of  naked  energy.  She  sought  to 
share  her  alarm  with  May  Gaston,  but  May  was  like 
a  climber  fronted  by  a  mountain  range. 


MOMENTS.  19 

"  You  may  be  right  and  you  may  be  wrong,"  said 
Morewood.  "  At  least  I  don't  know  anybody  who 
can  settle  the  quarrel  between  facts  and  dreams." 

"  There  isn't  any  quarrel." 

"  There's  a  little  stiffness  anyhow,"  urged  More- 
wood,  still  unwontedly  docile. 

"  They'd  get  on  better  if  they  saw  more  of  one 
another,"  suggested  May  timidly.  It  was  her  first 
intervention.  She  felt  its  insignificance.  She  would 
not  have  complained  if  Quisant£  had  followed  More- 
wood's  example  and .  taken  no  notice  of  it.  He 
stopped,  turned  to  her  with  exaggerated  deference, 
and  greeted  her  obvious  little  carrying  out  of  the 
metaphor  as  though  it  were  a  heaven-sent  light. 
Somehow  in  doing  this  he  seemed  to  fall  all  in  an 
instant  from  lofty  heights  to  depths  almost  beyond 
eyesight.  While  he  complimented  her  elaborately, 
Morewood  turned  away  in  open  impatience. 
Another  topic  was  started,  the  conversation  was 
killed  ;  or,  to  put  it  as  she  put  it  to  herself,  that 
moment  of  Quisant£'s  was  ended.  Did  his  moments 
always  end  like  that  ?  Did  they  fade  before  a 
breath,  like  the  frailest  flower  ?  Did  the  contempt- 
ible always  follow  in  a  flash  on  the  entrancing  ? 

Presently  she  found  a  chance  for  a  whisper  to 
Morewood. 

"  How  are  you  painting  him  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  must  come  and  see,"  he  replied,  with  a 
rather  sour  grin. 

"  So  I  will,  but  tell  me  now.  You  know  the 
difference,  I  mean?" 


20  QUISANTE. 

"  Oh,  and  do  you  already  ?  Well,  I  shall  do 
him  making  himself  agreeable  to  a  lady." 

"  For  heaven's  sake  don't !  "  she  whispered,  half- 
laughing  yet  not  without  seriousness.  The  man 
was  a  malicious  creature  and  might  well  caricature 
what  he  was  bound  to  idealise  to  the  extreme  limit 
of  nature's  sufferance.  Such  a  trick  would  be  hardly 
honest  to  Dick  Benyon,  but  Morewood  would  plead 
his  art  with  unashamed  effrontery,  and,  if  more  were 
needed,  tell  Dick  to  take  his  cheque  to  the  deuce 
and  go  with  it  himself. 

The  rest  of  the  party  was,  to  put  it  bluntly,  a 
pleasant  little  gathering  in  no  way  remarkable  and 
rather  spoilt  by  the  presence  of  one  person  who  was 
not  quite  a  gentleman.  May  struggled  hard  against 
the  mercilessness  of  the  judgment  contained  in  the 
last  words ;  for  it  ought  to  have  proved  quite  final  as 
regarded  Alexander  Quisante".  As  a  fact  it  would 
not  leave  her  mind,  it  established  an  absolutely  sure 
footing  in  her  convictions  ;  and  yet  it  did  not  seem 
quite  final  in  regard  to  Quisante.  Perhaps  Dick 
Benyon  would  maintain  the  proud  level  of  his 
remark  about  the  genealogy,  and  remind  her  that 
somebody  settled  Napoleon's  claims  by  the  same 
verdict.  But  one  did  not  meet  Napoleon  at  little 
dinners,  nor  think  of  him  with  no  countervailing 
achievements  to  his  name. 

Her  mind  was  so  full  of  the  man  that  when  she 
joined  her  mother  at  a  party  later  in  the  evening, 
she  had  an  absurd  anticipation  that  everybody  would 
talk  to  her  about  him.  Nobody  did  ;  that  evening 


MOMENTS.  21 

an  Arctic  explorer  and  a  new  fortune-teller  divided 
the  attention  of  the  polite  ;  men  came  and  discussed 
one  or  other  of  these  subjects  with  her  until  she  was 
weary.  For  once  then,  on  Marchmont  making  an 
appearance  near  her,  her  legs  did  not  carry  her  in 
the  opposite  direction  ;  she  awaited  and  even  invited 
his  approach ;  at  least  he  would  spare  her  the 
fashionable  gossip,  and  she  thought  he  might  tell 
her  something  about  Quisante.  In  two  words  he 
told  her,  if  not  anything  about  Quisante,  still  every- 
thing that  he  himself  thought  of  Quisant£. 

"I  met  Mr.  Quisante' at  dinner,"  she  said. 

"  That  fellow  !  "  exclaimed  Marchmont. 

The  tone  was  full  of  weariness  and  contempt ;  it 
qualified  the  man  as  unspeakable  and  dismissed  him 
as  intolerable.  Was  Marchmont  infallible,  as  Fanny 
had  said  ?  At  least  he  represented,  in  its  finest  and 
most  authoritative  form,  the  opinion  of  her  own  cir- 
cle, .the  unhesitating  judgment  against  which  she 
must  set  herself  if  she  became  Quisante's  champion. 
It  would  be  much  easier,  and  probably  much  more 
sensible,  to  fall  into  line  and  acquiesce  in  the  con- 
demnation ;  then  it  would  matter  nothing  whether 
the  vulgar  did  or  did  not  elect  to  admire  Dick  Ben- 
yon's  peculiar  friend.  Yet  a  protest  stirred  within 
her  ;  only  her  sense  of  the  ludicrous  prevented  her 
from  adopting  Dick's  word  and  asking  Marchmont 
if  he  had  ever  seen  the  fellow  in  one  of  his  "  mo- 
ments." But  it  would  be  absurd  to  catch  up  the 
phrase  like  that,  and  it  was  by  no  means  certain  that 
even  the  moments  would  appeal  to  Marchmont. 


22  QUISANT£. 

Looking  round,  she  perceived  that  a  little  space 
in  the  crowded  room  had  been  left  vacant  about 
them  ;  nobody  came  up  to  her,  no  woman,  in  pass- 
ing by,  signalled  to  Marchmont ;  the  constant  give- 
and-take  of  companions  was  suspended  in  their 
favour.  In  fine,  people  supposed  that  they  wanted 
to  talk  to  one  another  ;  it  would  not  be  guessed  that 
one  of  the  pair  wished  Quisant£  to  be  the  topic. 

"  He's  got  some  brains,"  Marchmont  went  on, 
"  though  of  rather  a  flashy  sort,  I  think.  Dick 
Benyon's  been  caught  by  them.  But  a  more  im- 
possible person  I  never  met.  You  don't  like  him  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  she  answered  defiantly.  "  At  least  I 
do  every  now  and  then." 

"  Pray  make  the  occasions  as  rare  as  possible,"  he 
urged  in  his  low  lazy  voice,  with  his  pleasant  smile 
and  a  confidential  look  in  his  handsome  eyes.  "  And 
don't  let  them  coincide  with  my  presence." 

"  Really  he  won't  hurt  you;  you're  too  par- 
ticular." 

"  No,  he  won't  hurt  me,  but  I  should  feel  rather 
as  though  he  were  hurting  you." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  By  being  near  you,  certainly  by  being  anything 
in  the  least  like  a  friend  of  yours." 

"  He'd  defile  me?"  she  asked,  laughing. 

"  Yes,"  said  he  seriously ;  the  next  moment  he 
smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders ;  he  did  not  with- 
draw his  seriousness  but  he  apologised  for  it. 

"  Oh,  I'd  better  get  under  a  glass-case  at  once," 
she  exclaimed,  laughing  again  impatiently. 


MOMENTS.  23 


"  Yes,  and  lock  it,  and " 

"  Give  you  the  key  ?  " 

He  laughed  as  he  said,  "  The  most  artistic 
emotions  have  some  selfishness  in  them,  I  admit  it." 

"  It  would  make  a  little  variety  if  I  sent  a  dupli- 
cate to  Mr.  Quisante"  !  " 

Here  he  would  not  follow  her  in  her  banter.  He 
grew  grave  and  even  frowned,  but  all  he  said  was, 
"  Really  there  are  limits,  you  know."  It  was  her 
own  verdict,  expressed  more  tersely,  more  com- 
pletely, and  more  finally.  There  were  limits,  and 
Alexander  Quisante1  was  beyond  them ;  the  barrier 
they  raised  could  not  be  surmounted ;  he  could  not 
fly  over  it  even  on  the  wings  of  his  moments. 

"  You  above  everybody  oughtn't  to  know  such 
people,"  Marchmont  went  on. 

Now  he  was  thinking  of  the  type  she  was  supposed 
to  represent ;  that  was  the  fashion  in  which  it  was 
appropriate  to  talk  to  the  type. 

"  I'm  not  in  the  very  least  like  that  really,"  she 
assured  him.  "  If  you  knew  me  better  you'd  find 
that  out  very  soon." 

"  I'm  willing  to  risk  it." 

Flirtation  for  flirtation — and  this  conversation  was 
becoming  one — there  could  be  no  comparison  be- 
tween Marchmont's  and  Quisant£'s  ;  the  one  was  de- 
lightful, the  other  odious  ;  the  one  combined  charm 
with  dignity ;  the  other  was  a  mixture  of  cringing  and 
presumption.  May  put  the  contrast  no  less  strongly 
than  this  as  she  yielded  to  the  impulse  of  the  minute 
and  gave  the  lie  to  Marchmont's  ideal  of  her  by  her 


24  QUISANT£. 

reckless  acceptance  of  the  immediate  delights  he  of- 
fered. The  ideal  would  no  doubt  cause  him  to  put  a 
great  deal  of  meaning  into  her  acceptance  ;  whether 
such  meaning  were  one  she  would  be  prepared  to  in- 
dorse her  mood  did  not  allow  her  to  consider.  She 
showed  him  very  marked  favour  that  evening,  and 
in  his  company  contrived  to  forget  entirely  the 
puzzle  of  Quisant6  and  his  moments,  and  the  pos- 
sible relation  of  those  moments  to  the  limits  about 
which  her  companion  was  so  decisive. 

At  last,  however,  they  were  interrupted.  The  in- 
terruption  came  from  Dick  Benyon,  who  had  looked 
in  somewhere  else  and  arrived  now  at  the  tail  of  the 
evening.  Far  too  eager  and  engrossed  in  his  great 
theme  to  care  whether  his  appearance  were  welcome, 
he  dashed  up  to  May,  crying  out  even  before  he 
reached  her,  "  Well,  what  do  you  say  about  him 
now  ?  Wasn't  he  splendid  ?  " 

Clearly  Dick  forgot  his  earlier  apologetic  period  ; 
for  him  the  moment  was  the  evening.  A  cool  ques- 
tion from  Marchmont,  the  cooler  perhaps  for 
annoyance,  forced  Dick  into  explanations,  and  he 
sketched  in  his  summary  fashion  the  incident  which 
had  aroused  his  enthusiasm  and  made  him  look  so 
confidently  for  a  response  from  May.  Marchmont 
was  unreservedly  and  almost  scornfully  antagonistic. 

"  Oh,  you're  too  cultivated  to  live,"  cried  Dick. 
"  Now  isn't  he  too  elegant,  May?  " 

"  I'm  not  the  least  elegant,"  said  Marchmont,  with 
quiet  confidence.  "  But  I'm — well,  I'm  what  Qui- 
sant6  isn't.  So  are  you,  Dick." 


MOMENTS.  25 

"  Suppose  we  are,  and  by  Jove,  isn't  he  what  we 
aren't  ?  I'm  primitive,  I  suppose.  I  think  hands 
and  brains  are  better  than  manners." 

"  I'll  agree,  but  I  don't  like  his  hands  or  his  brains 
either." 

"  He'll  mount  high." 

"  As  high  as  Haman.  I  shouldn't  be  the  least 
surprised  to  see  it." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  give  him  up  because  he 
doesn't  shake  hands  at  the  latest  fashionable  angle." 

"  All  right,  Dick.  And  I'm  not  going  to  take  him 
up  because  he's  a  dab  at  rodomontade." 

"  And  you  neither  of  you  need  fight  about  him," 
May  put  in,  laughing.  They  joined  in  her  laugh, 
each  excusing  himself  by  good-natured  abuse  of  the 
other. 

There  was  no  question  of  a  quarrel,  but  the 
divergence  was  complete,  striking,  and  even  start- 
ling. To  one  all  was  black,  to  the  other  all  white  ; 
to  one  all  tin,  to  the  other  all  gold.  Was  there 
no  possibility  of  compromise  ?  As  she  sat  be- 
tween the  two,  May  thought  that  a  discriminating 
view  of  Quisant£  ought  to  be  attainable,  not  an 
oscillation  from  disgust  to  admiration,  but  a  well- 
balanced  stable  judgment  which  should  allow  full 
value  to  merits  and  to  defects,  and  sum  up  the 
man  as  a  whole.  Something  of  the  sort  she  tried 
to  suggest ;  neither  disputant  would  hear  of  it,  and 
Marchmont  went  off  with  an  unyielding  assertion  that 
the  man  was  a  cad,  no  more  and  no  less  than  a  cad. 
Dick  looked  after  him  with  a  well-satisfied  air  ;  May 


26  QUISANT£. 

fancied  that  opposition  and  the  failure  of  others  to 
understand  intensified  his  satisfaction  in  his  own 
discovery.  But  he  grew  mournful  as  he  said  to  her, 

"  I  shan't  have  a  chance  with  you  now.  You'll 
go  with  Marchmont  of  course.  And  I  did  want  you 
to  like  him." 

"  Mr.  Marchmont  doesn't  control  my  opinions." 

They  were  very  old  friends ;  Dick  allowed  himself 
a  significant  smile. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  smiling. 
"  But  it's  nonsense.  Besides,  look  at  yourself  and 
Amy !  She  hates  him,  and  yet  you " 

"  Oh,  she's  only  half-serious,  and  Marchmont's  in 
deadly  earnest  under  that  deuced  languid  manner 
of  his.  I  tell  you  what,  he's  a  very  limited  fellow, 
after  all." 

May  laughed ;  the  limits  were  being  turned  to  a 
new  use  now. 

"  Awfully  clever  and  well-read,  but  shut  up  inside 
a  sort  of  compartment  of  life.  Don't  you  know 
what  I  mean  ?  He's  always  ridden  first-class,  and  he 
won't  believe  there's  anybody  worth  knowing  in  the 
thirds." 

"  You  think  he's  like  that  ?  "  she  asked  thought- 
fully. 

"You  can  see  it  for  yourself.  There's  no  better 
fellow,  no  better  friend,  but,  hang  it,  an  oyster's  got 
a  broader  mind." 

"  I  like  broad  minds." 

"Then  you'll  like  Quis " 

"Absolutely  you  shan't  mention  that  name  again. 


MOMENTS.  27 

Find  mother  for  me  and  tell  her  to  tell  me  that  it's 
time  to  go  home." 

Going  home  brought  with  it  a  discovery.  May 
was  considered  to  have  invited  the  world  to  take 
notice  of  her  preference  for  Marchmont.  This  fact 
was  first  conveyed  to  her  by  Lady  Attlebridge's 
gently  affectionate  and  congratulatory  air ;  at  this 
May  was  little  more  than  amused.  Evidence  of 
greater  significance  lay  in  Fanny's  demeanour ;  she 
came  into  her  sister's  room  and  talked  for  a  while ; 
before  leaving,  but  after,  the  ordinary  kiss  of  good- 
night, she  came  back  suddenly  and  kissed  her  again  ; 
she  said  nothing,  but  the  embrace  was  emphatic  and 
eloquent.  It  seemed  to  the  recipient  to  be  forgiving 
also  ;  it  meant  "  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  don't 
imagine  I  think  of  anything  else."  If  Fanny  kissed 
her  like  that,  it  was  because  Fanny  supposed  that 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  Weston  March- 
mont. She  was  fully  conscious  that  the  inference 
was  not  a  strange  one  to  draw  from  her  conduct  that 
evening.  But  now  the  mood  of  impulse  was  entirely 
gone  ;  she  considered  the  matter  in  a  cool  spirit, 
and  her  talk  with  Dick  Benyon  assumed  unlooked- 
for  importance  in  her  deliberations.  To  marry 
Marchmont  was  a  step  entirely  in  harmony  with 
the  ideal  which  her  family  and  the  world  had 
of  her,  which  Marchmont  himself  most  thoroughly 
and  undoubtingly  believed  in.  If  she  were  really 
what  she  was  supposed  to  be,  the  match  would  satisfy 
her  as  well  as  it  would  everybody  else.  But  if  she 
were  quite  different  in  her  heart  ?  In  that  case 


28  QUISANT£. 

it  might  indeed  be  urged  that  no  marriage  would  or 
could  permanently  satisfy  her  or  the  whole  of  her 
nature.  This  was  likely  enough  ;  to  see  how  often 
something  of  that  kind  happened  it  was,  unfortu- 
nately, only  necessary  to  run  over  ten  or  a  dozen 
names  which  offered  themselves  promptly  enough 
from  the  list  of  her  acquaintance.  Still  to  marry 
knowing  you  would  not  be  satisfied  was  to  drop  be- 
low the  common  fate  of  marrying  knowing  that  you 
might  not  be  ;  it  gave  up  the  golden  chance ;  it 
abandoned  illusion  just  where  illusion  seemed  most 
necessary. 

Oh  for  life,  for  the  movement  of  life!  It  is  per- 
haps hard  to  realise  how  often  that  cry  breaks  from 
the  hearts  of  women.  No  doubt  the  aspiration  it 
expresses  is  rather  apt  to  end  in  antics,  not  edifying 
to  the  onlooker,  hardly  (it  may  be  supposed)  com- 
forting to  the  performer.  But  the  antics  are  one 
thing,  the  aspiration  another,  and  they  have  the 
aspiration  strongest  who  condemn  and  shun  the 
antics.  The  matter  may  be  stated  very  simply,  at 
least  if  the  form  in  which  it  presented  itself  to  May 
Gaston  in  her  twenty-third  year  be  allowed  to 
suffice.  Most  girls  are  bred  in  a  cage,  most  girls 
expect  to  escape  therefrom  by  marriage,  most  girls 
find  that  they  have  only  walked  into  another  cage. 
She  had  nothing  to  say,  so  far  as  her  own  case 
went,  against  the  comfort  either  of  the  old  or  of  the 
new  cage  ;  they  were  both  indeed  luxurious.  But 
cages  they  were  and  such  she  knew  them  to  be. 
Doubtless  there  must  be  limits,  not  only  to  the 


MOMENTS.  29 

tolerance  of  Weston  Marchmont  and  of  society,  but 
to  everything  else  except  infinity.  But  there  are 
great  expanses,  wide  spaces,  short  of  infinity. 
When  she  walked  out  of  her  first  cage,  the  one 
which  her  mother's  careful  fingers  had  kept  locked 
on  her,  she  would  like  not  to  walk  into  another,  but 
to  escape  into  some  park  or  forest,  not  boundless, 
yet  so  large  as  to  leave  room  for  exploring,  for  the 
finding  of  new  things,  for  speculation,  for  doubt, 
excitement,  uncertainty,  even  for  the  presence  of 
apprehension  and  the  possibility  of  danger.  As  she 
surveyed  the  manner  in  which  she  was  expected  to 
pass  her  life,  the  manner  in  which  she  was  supposed 
(she  faced  now  the  common  interpretation  of  her 
conduct  this  evening)  already  to  have  elected  to 
pass  it,  she  felt  as  a  speculator  feels  towards  Con- 
sols, as  a  gambler  towards  threepenny  whist.  It 
seemed  as  though  nothing  could  be  good  which  did 
not  also  hold  within  it  the  potency  of  being  very 
bad,  as  though  certainty  damned  and  chance  alone 
had  lures  to  offer.  She  would  have  liked  to  take 
life  in  her  hand — however  precious  a  thing,  what 
use  is  it  if  you  hoard  it  ? — and  see  what  she  could 
make  of  it,  what  usury  its  free  loan  to  fate  and  for- 
tune would  earn.  She  might  lose  it ;  youth  made 
light  of  the  risk.  She  might  crawl  back  in  sad 
plight  ;  the  Prodigal  Son  did  not  think  of  that  when 
he  set  out.  She  found  herself  wishing  she  had 
nothing,  that  she  might  be  free  to  start  on  the 
search  for  anything. 

Like   Quisant£  ?     Why,  yes,  just  like  Quisant6. 


3o  QUISANT£. 

Like  that  strange,  intolerable,  vulgar,  attractive,  in- 
termittently inspired  creature,  who  presented  him- 
self at  life's  roulette-table,  not  less  various  in  his 
own  person  than  were  the  varying  turns  he  courted, 
unaccountable  as  chance,  baffling  as  fate,  change- 
able as  luck.  Indeed  he  was  like  life  itself,  a  thing 
you  loved  and  hated,  grew  weary  of  and  embraced, 
shrank  from  and  pursued.  To  see  him  then  was  in 
a  way  to  look  on  at  life,  to  be  in  contact  with  him 
was  to  feel  the  throb  of  its  movement.  In  her  mid- 
night musings  the  man  seemed  somehow  to  cease 
to  be  odious  because  he  ceased  to  be  individual,  to 
be  no  longer  incomprehensible  because  he  was  no 
longer  apart,  because  he  became  to  her  less  himself 
and  more  the  expression  and  impersonation  of  an 
instinct  that  in  her  own  blood  ran  riot  and  held 
festivity. 

"  I'm   having  moments,  like   Mr.  Quisante  him- 
self! "  she  said  with  a  sudden  laugh. 


CHAPTER  III 

SANDRO'  S    WAY. 

FIRST  to  the  City,  then  to  the  doctor,  then  to  the 
House,  then  to  the  dinner  of  the  Imperial  League  ; 
this  was  Quisante's  programme  for  the  second 
Wednesday  in  April.  It  promised  a  busy  day.  But 
of  the  doctor  and  the  House  he  made  light ;  the  first 
was  a  formality,  the  second  held  out  no  prospect  of 
excitement ;  the  City  and  the  dinner  were  the  real 
things.  They  were  connected  with  and  must  be 
made  to  promote  the  two  aims  which  he  had  taken 
for  his  with  perfect  confidence.  He  wanted  money 
and  he  wanted  position  ;  he  saw  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  attain  both  in  the  fullest  measure. 
Recent  events  had  filled  him  with  a  sure  and  certain 
hope.  Not  allowing  for  the  value  of  the  good  man- 
ners which  he  lacked,  he  failed  to  see  that  he  ex- 
cited any  hostility  or  any  distaste.  Unless  a  man 
were  downright  rude  to  him,  he  counted  him  an  ad- 
herent ;  this  streak  of  a  not  unpleasing  simplicity  ran 
across  his  varied  nature.  He  was  far  from  being 
alive  to  his  disadvantages  ;  every  hour  assured  him 
of  his  superiority.  Most  especially  he  counted  on 
the  aid  and  favour  of  women  ;  the  future  might 
prove  him  right  or  wrong  in  his  expectation  ;  but 

31 


32  QUISANT£. 

he  relied  for  its  realisation  not  on  the  power  which 
he  did  possess  but  on  an  accomplishment  of  man- 
ner and  an  insinuating  fascination  which  he  most 
absolutely  lacked.  The  ultra-civility  which  repelled 
May  Gaston  was  less  a  device  than  an  exhibition  ; 
he  embarked  on  it  more  because  he  thought  he  did 
it  well  than  (as  she  supposed)  from  a  desire  to  curry 
favour.  He  was  ill-bred,  but  he  was  not  mean  ;  he 
was  a  vaunter  but  not  a  coward ;  he  demanded 
adherence  and  did  not  beg  alms.  This  was  the 
attitude  of  his  mind,  but  unhappily  it  was  often 
apparently  contradicted  by  the  cringing  of  his 
body  and  the  wheedling  of  his  tongue.  In  attempt- 
ing smoothness  he  fell  into  oiliness  ;  where  he 
aimed  at  polished  brilliance,  the  result  was  blazing 
varnish.  Had  he  known  what  to  pray  for,  he  would 
have  supplicated  heaven  that  he  might  meet  eyes 
able  to  see  the  man  beneath  the  ape.  Such  eyes, 
dimly  penetrating  with  an  unexpected  vision,  he 
had  won  to  his  side  in  the  Benyon  brothers  ;  the 
rest  of  the  world  still  stuck  on  the  outside  surface. 
But  the  brothers  could  only  shield  him,  they  could 
not  change  him  ;  they  might  promote  his  fortunes, 
they  could  not  cure  his  vices.  He  did  not  know 
that  he  had  any  vices  ;  the  first  stage  of  amend- 
ment was  still  to  come. 

He  had  a  cousin  in  the  City,  a  stock-jobber,  who 
made  and  lost  large  sums  of  money  as  fortune 
smiled  or  frowned.  Quisant6  had  the  first  five 
hundred  of  Aunt  Maria's  thousand  pounds  in  his 
pocket  and  told  his  kinsman  to  use  it  for  him. 


SANDRO'S  WAY.  33 

"  A  spec?  "  asked  Mr.  Josiah  Mandeville.  "  Isn't 
that  rather  rough  on  Aunt  Maria  ?" 

Quisante  looked  surprised.  "  She  gave  it  me,  I 
haven't  stolen  it,  '  he  said  with  a  laugh. 

"  She  gave  it  you  to  live  on,  to  keep  up  your 
position,  I  suppose." 

"  I  don't  think  she  made  any  conditions.  And  if 
I  can  make  money,  I'll  give  it  back  to  her." 

"  Oh,  you  know  best,  I  suppose,"  said  Mande- 
ville. "  Only  if  I  lose  it  ?  " 

"  Losing  money's  no  worse  than  spending  it." 
And  then  he  mentioned  a  certain  venture  in  which 
the  money  might  usefully  be  employed. 

"  How  did  you  hear  of  that  ?  "  asked  Mandeville 
with  a  stare  ;  for  his  cousin  had  laid  his  finger  on  a 
secret,  on  the  very  secret  which  Mandeville  had 
just  decided  not  to  reveal  to  him,  kinsman  though 
he  was. 

"  I  forget  ;  somebody  said  something  about  it 
that  made  me  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing." 
Quisant£'s  tone  was  vaguely  puzzled  ;  he  often 
knew  things  when  he  could  give  no  account  of  his 
knowledge. 

"  Well,  you  aren't  far  wrong.  You'll  take  a 
small  profit,  I  suppose  ?  Shall  I  use  my  discre- 
tion ?" 

"  No,"  smiled  Quisant£.  "  I  shan't  take  a  small 
profit,  and  I'll  use  mine.  But  keep  me  well  informed 
and  you  shan't  be  a  loser." 

Mr.  Mandeville  laughed.  "  One  might  think  you 
had  a  million,"  he  observed.  "  Or  are  you  propos- 
3 


34  QUISANT£. 

ing  to  tip  me  a  fiver?"  The  thought  of  his  own 
thousands  filled  his  tone  with  scorn  ;  he  did  not  do 
his  speculating  with  Aunt  Maria's  money. 

"  If  you're  too  proud,  I  can  take  my  business 
somewhere  else — and  the  name  of  the  concern  too," 
said  Quisante,  lighting  a  cigar.  Cousin  Mandeville's 
stare  had  not  escaped  his  notice. 

Mandeville  hesitated ;  he  was  very  much  an- 
noyed ;  he  liked  his  money,  if  not  himself,  to  be 
respected.  But  business  is  business,  to  say  nothing 
of  blood  being  thicker  than  water. 

"  Oh,  well,  I'll  do  it  for  you,"  he  agreed  with  lofty 
benevolence.  Quisant£  laughed.  He  would  have 
covered  his  own  retreat  with  much  the  same 
device. 

The  riches  then  were  on  the  way  ;  Quisant6  had 
a  far-seeing  eye,  and  Aunt  Maria's  five  hundred  was 
to  imagination  already  prolific  of  thousands.  A 
hansom  carried  him  up  to  Harley  Street ;  he  had 
been  there  three  months  before  and  had  been  told 
to  come  again  in  three  weeks.  The  punishment  for 
his  neglect  was  a  severe  verdict.  "  No  liquor,  no 
tobacco,  and  three  months'  immediate  and  complete 
rest."  Quisant^  laughed — very  much  as  he  had  at 
his  kinsman  in  the  City.  Both  doctor  and  stock- 
jobber showed  such  a  curious  ignorance  of  the  con- 
ditions under  which  his  life  had  to  be  lived  and  of 
his  reasons  for  caring  to  live  it. 

"  What's  the  matter  then  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  doctor  became  very  technical,  though  not 
quite  unreserved  ;  the  heart  and  the  stomach  were 


SANDRO'S  WAY.  35 

in  some  unholy  conspiracy  ;  this  was  as  much  as 
Quisant6  really  understood. 

"  And  if  I  don't  do  as  you  say  ?  "  he  asked.  The 
doctor  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I 
shan't  outlive  Methuselah  anyhow,  I  suppose?  " 

"  The  present  conditions  of  your  life  are  very 
wearing,"  said  the  doctor. 

Quisant6  looked  at  him  thoughtfully. 

"  But  if  you'd  live  wisely,  there's  no  reason  why 
you  shouldn't  preserve  good  health  till  an  advanced 
age." 

Aunt  Maria's  five  hundred,  invested  in  Consols, 
would  bring  in  twelve  pounds  ten  shillings  or  there- 
abouts every  year  for  ever. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Quisant6,  rising  and  producing 
the  fee.  But  he  paused  before  going  and  said  medi- 
tatively, "  I  should  really  like  to  be  able  to  follow 
your  advice,  you  know."  His  brow  clouded  in 
discontent ;  the  one  serious  handicap  he  recognised 
was  this  arbitrary  unfortunate  doom  of  a  body 
unequal  to  the  necessary  strain  of  an  active  life 
"Anyhow  I'm  good  for  a  little  while?  "  he  asked. 

"  Dear  irje,  you're  in  no  sort  of  immediate  danger, 
Mr.  Quisante,  or  I  should  be  more  imperative.  Only 
pray  give  yourself  a  chance." 

On  his  way  from  Harley  Street  to  the  House, 
and  again  from  the  House  to  his  own  rooms  in  Pall 
Mall,  his  mind  was  busy  with  the  speech  that  he 
was  to  make  at  the  dinner.  He  had  only  to  respond 
to  the  toast  of  the  guests ;  few  words  and  simple 
would  be  expected.  He  was  thus  the  more  resolved 


36  QUISANT£. 

on  a  great  effort  ;  the  surprise  that  the  mere  attempt 
at  an  oration  would  arouse  should  pave  the  way  for 
the  astonishment  his  triumph  must  create.  He  had 
no  rival  in  the  programme  ;  the  Chairman  was  Dick 
Benyon,  the  great  gun  an  eminent  Colonial  States- 
man who  relied  for  fame  on  his  deeds  rather  than 
his  words.  With  his  curiously  minute  calculation 
of  chances  Quisant6  had  discovered  that  there  was 
no  social  occasion  of  great  attraction  to  carry  off  his 
audience  after  dinner  ;  they  would  stay  and  listen 
if  he  were  worth  listening  to  ;  the  ladies  in  the  gal- 
lery would  stay  too,  if  at  the  outset  he  could  strike 
a  note  that  would  touch  their  hearts.  This  was  his 
first  really  good  chance,  the  first  opening  for  such  a 
coup  as  he  loved.  His  eyes  were  bright  as  he  opened 
an  atlas  and  verified  with  precision  the  exact  posi- 
tion of  the  Colonial  Statesman's  Colony  ;  he  had 
known  it  before  of  course — roughly. 

Lady  Richard  had  much  affection  in  her  nature 
and  with  it  a  fine  spice  of  malice.  The  two  ingre- 
dients combined  to  bring  her  to  the  gallery ;  she 
wished  to  please  Dick,  and  she  wished  to  be  in  a 
position  to  annoy  him  by  deriding  Quisante.  So 
there  she  sat  looking  down  on  the  men  through  a 
haze  of  cigar-smoke  which  afflicted  the  ladies' 
noses  and  threatened  seriously  to  affect  their 
gowns. 

"  They  might  give  up  their  tobacco  for  one  night," 
muttered  a  girl  near  her. 

"  They'd  much  rather  give  us  up,  my  dear," 
retorted  a  dowager  who  felt  that  she  would  be  con- 


SANDRO'S  WAY.  37 

sidered  a  small  sacrifice  and  was  not  unwilling  to 
make  others  think  the  same  about  themselves. 

By  Lady  Richard's  side  sat  May  Gaston.  The 
time  is  happily  gone  by  when  any  one  is  allowed 
even  to  assume  indifference  about  the  Empire,  yet 
it  may  be  doubted  whether  interest  in  the  Empire 
had  the  chief  share  in  moving  her  to  accept  Lady 
Richard's  invitation.  Nor  did  she  want  to  hear  Dick 
Benyon,  nor  the  Colonial  Statesman ;  quite  openly 
she  desired  and  expressed  her  desire  to  see  what 
Quisant£  would  make  of  it. 

"  How  absurd ! "  said  Lady  Richard  crossly. 
"  Besides  he's  only  got  a  few  words  to  say." 

May  smiled  and  glanced  along  the  row  of  ladies. 
About  ten  places  from  her  was  a  funny  little  old 
woman  with  an  absurd  false  front  of  fair  hair  and  a 
black  silk  gown  cut  in  ancient  fashion  ;  her  features 
showed  vivid  disgust  at  the  atmosphere  and  she 
made  frequent  use  of  a  large  bottle  of  smelling-salts. 
Next  to  her,  on  the  other  side,  was  Mrs.  Gellatly, 
who  nodded  and  smiled  effusively  at  May. 

"  Who's  the  funny  old  woman  ?  "  May  asked. 

Lady  Richard  looked  round  and  made  a  con- 
strained bow  ;  the  old  lady  smiled  a  little  and  sniffed 
the  bottle  again. 

"  Oh,  she's  an  aunt  of  the  man's ;  come  to  hear 
him,  I  suppose.  Oh,  Dick's  getting  up." 

Amid  polite  attention  and  encouraging  "  Hear, 
hears  "  Dick  made  his  way  through  a  few  appropri- 
ate sentences  which  his  hearty  sincerity  redeemed 
from  insignificance.  The  Colonial  Statesman  had  a 


38  QUISANTE. 

well-founded  idea  that  the  zeal  of  his  audience  out- 
stripped its  knowledge,  and  set  himself  to  improve 
the  latter  rather  than  to  inflame  the  former.  His 
reward  was  a  somewhat  frigid  reception.  May 
noticed  that  old  Miss  Quisant£  was  dozing,  and 
Lady  Richard  said  that  she  wished  she  was  at  home 
in  bed :  Quisante  himself  had  assumed  a  smile  of 
anticipation  when  the  Statesman  rose  and  preserved 
it  unimpaired  through  the  long  course  of  the  speech. 
The  audience  as  a  whole  grew  a  little  restless  ;  while 
the  next  speaker  addressed  them,  one  or  two  men 
rose  and  slipped  away  unobtrusively.  A  quick 
frown  and  a  sudden  jerk  of  Quisant6's  head  betrayed 
his  fear  that  more  would  go  before  he  could  lay  his 
grip  on  them. 

"  Why  doesn't  this  man  stop  ?  "  whispered  May. 

"  I  suppose,  my  dear,  he  thinks  he  may  as  well 
put  Mr.  Quisant6  off  as  long  as  possible,"  Lady 
Richard  answered  flippantly. 

Amid  yawns,  the  laying  down  of  burnt-out  cigars, 
and  glances  at  watches,  Quisante"  rose  to  make  his 
reply.  Aunt  Maria  was  wide-awake  now,  looking 
down  at  her  nephew  with  her  sour  smile ;  Lady 
Richard  leant  back  resignedly.  Quisant6  pressed 
back  his  heavy  smooth  black  hair,  opened  his  wide 
thin-lipped  mouth,  and  began  with  a  courteous  com- 
monplace reference  to  those  who  shared  with  him- 
self the  honour  of  being  guests  that  night.  Ordi- 
nary as  the  frame-work  was,  there  was  a  touch  of 
originality  in  what  he  said  ;  one  or  two  men  who 
had  meant  to  go  struck  matches  and  lit  fresh  cigars 


SANDRO'S  WAY.  39 

Dick  Benyon  looked  up  at  the  gallery  and  nodded  to 
his  wife.  Then  Quisant£  seemed  suddenly  to  in- 
crease his  stature  by  an  inch  or  two  and  to  let  loose 
his  arms  ;  his  voice  was  still  not  loud,  but  every 
syllable  fell  with  incisive  distinctness  on  his  listener's 
ears.  An  old  Member  of  Parliament  whispered  to 
an  elderly  barrister,  "  He  can  speak  anyhow,"  and 
got  an  assenting  nod  for  answer.  And  he  was  look- 
ing as  he  had  when  he  spoke  of  his  Empress  among 
women,  as  he  had  when  he  declared  that  the  Spirit 
of  God  could  not  live  and  move  in  the  grave-clothes 
of  dead  prophets.  He  was  far  away  from  the  guests 
now,  and  he  was  far  away  from  himself ;  it  was 
another  moment ;  he  was  possessed  again.  Dick 
looked  up  with  a  radiant  triumphant  smile,  but  his 
wife  was  frowning,  and  May  Gaston  sat  with  a  face 
like  a  mask. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  murmured  the  elderly  barrister. 

The  whole  speech  was  short ;  perhaps  it  had  been 
meant  to  be  longer,  but  suddenly  Quisant£'s  pale 
face  turned  paler  still,  he  caught  his  hand  to  his  side, 
he  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  stumbled  over  his 
words  ;  than  he  recovered  and,  with  his  hand  still  on 
his  side,  raised  his  voice  again.  But  the  logical  mind 
of  the  elderly  barrister  seemed  to  detect  a  lacuna  in 
the  reasoning;  the  speaker  had  skipped  something 
and  flown  straight  to  his  peroration.  He  gave  it  now 
in  tones  firm  but  slower  than  before,  with  a  pause 
here  and  there,  yet  in  the  end  summoning  his  forces 
to  a  last  flood  of  impassioned  words.  Then  he  sat 
down,  not  straight,  but  falling  just  a  little  on  one 


40  QUISANT£. 

side  and  making  a  clutch  at  his  neighbour's  shoulder  ; 
and  while  they  cheered  he  sat  quite  still  with  closed 
eyes  and  opened  lips.  "  Has  he  fainted?  "  ran  in  a 
hushed  whisper  round  the  room  ;  Dick  Benyon 
sprang  from  his  chair,  a  waiter  was  hurried  off  for 
brandy,  and  Lady  Richard  observed  in  her  delicately 
scornful  tones,  "  How  extremely  theatrical !  " 

"  Theatrical ! "  said  May  in  a  low  indignant 
voice. 

"  You  don't  suppose  he's  really  fainting,  my  dear, 
do  you  ?  Oh,  I've  seen  him  do  the  same  sort  of 
thing  once  before  !  " 

An  impulse  carried  May's  eyes  towards  Miss 
Quisant£  ;  the  old  lady  was  smiling  composedly  and 
sniffing  her  bottle.  Her  demeanour  was  in  strong 
contrast  to  Mrs.  Gellatly's  almost  tearful  excite- 
ment. 

"  He  couldn't,  he  couldn't !"  May  moaned  in 
horror. 

If  the  untrue  suspicion  entertained  by  Lady 
Richard  and  possibly  shared  by  Miss  Quisant£ 
(the  old  lady's  face  was  a  riddle)  spread  at  all  to 
anybody  else,  the  fault  lay  entirely  at  the  sufferer's 
own  door.  He  knew  too  well  how  real  the  attack 
had  been  ;  when  the  ladies  mingled  with  the  men  to 
take  tea  and  coffee,  he  was  still  suffering  from  its 
after-effects.  But  he  treated  the  occurrence  in  so 
hopelessly  wrong  a  way  ;  he  minced  and  smirked 
over  it ;  he  would  not  own  to  a  straightforward 
physical  illness,  but  preferred  to  hint  at  and  even 
take  credit  for  an  exaggerated  sensibility,  as  though 


SANDRO'S  WAY.  41 

he  enhanced  his  own  eloquence  by  pointing  to  the 
extraordinary  exhaustion  it  produced.  He  must 
needs  bring  the  frailty  of  his  body  to  the  front, 
not  as  an  apology,  but  as  an  added  claim  to  interest 
and  a  new  title  by  which  to  win  soft  words,  admiring 
looks,  and  sympathetic  pressings  from  pretty  hands. 
Who  could  blame  Lady  Richard  for  murmuring, 
"  There,  my  dear,  now  you  see ! "  ?  Who  could 
wonder  that  Aunt  Maria  looked  cynically  indif- 
ferent ?  Was  it  strange  that  a  good  many  people, 
without  going  to  the  length  of  declaring  that  the 
orator  had  suffered  nothing  at  all,  yet  were  inclined 
to  think  that  he  knew  better  than  to  waste,  and 
quite  well  how  to  improve,  the  opportunity  that  a 
trifling  fatigue  or  a  passing  touch  of  faintness  gave 
him  ?  "  Knows  how  to  fetch  the  women,  doesn't 
he  ?  "  said  somebody  with  a  laugh.  To  be  accused 
of  that  knowledge  is  not  a  passport  to  the  admira- 
tion of  men. 

Before  May  Gaston  came  near  Quisant£  himself, 
Jimmy  Benyon  seized  on  her  and  introduced  her  to 
Aunt  Maria.  In  reply  to  politely  expressed  phrases 
of  concern  the  old  lady's  shrewd  eyes  twinkled. 

"  Sandro'll  soon  come  round,  if  they  let  him  alone," 
she  said. 

The  words  were  consistent  with  either  view  of  the 
occurrence,  but  the  tone  inclined  them  to  the  side 
of  uncharitableness. 

"  Is  he  liable  to  such  attacks  ?  "  May  asked. 

"  He's  always  been  rather  sickly,"  Miss  Quisant6 
admitted  grudgingly. 


42  QUISANT£. 

"  He's  had  a  splendid  triumph  to-night.     He  was 
magnificent." 

"  Sandro  makes  the  most  of  a  chance." 
May  was  surprised  to  find  herself  attracted  to  the 
dry  old  woman.  Such  an  absence  of  feeling  in  regard 
to  one  who  was  her  only  relative  and  the  hero  of 
the  evening  might  more  naturally  have  aroused 
dislike ;  but  Aunt  Maria's  coolness  was  funnily 
touched  both  by  resignation  and  by  humour ;  she 
mourned  that  things  were  as  they  were,  but  did 
not  object  to  laughing  at  them.  When  immaculate 
Jimmy,  a  splendid  type  of  the  handsome  dandified 
man  about  town,  began  to  be  enthusiastic  over 
Quisante,  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sneering 
kindly  smile,  seeming  to  ask,  "  How  in  the  world 
do  you  come  to  be  mixed  up  with  Sandro  ?  "  When 
May  expressed  the  hope  that  he  would  be  more 
careful  of  himself  Aunt  Maria's  smile  said,  "  If  you 
knew  as  much  about  him  as  I  do,  you'd  take  it 
quietly.  It's  Sandro's  way."  Yet  side  by  side  with 
all  this  was  the  utter  absence  of  any  surprise  at  his 
exhibition  of  power  or  at  the  triumph  he  had  won  ; 
these  she  seemed  to  take  as  the  merest  matter  of 
course.  She  knew  Quisante  better  than  any  living 
being  knew  him,  and  this  was  her  attitude  towards 
him.  When  they  bade  one  another  good-bye,  May 
said  that  she  was  sure  Ler  mother  would  like  to 
call  on  Miss  Quisante.  "  Come  yourself,"  said  the 
old  lady  abruptly  ;  she  at  least  showed  no  oiliness,  no 
violence  of  varnish  ;  they  were  not  in  the  family,  it 
seemed. 


SANDRO'S  WAY.  43 

The  crowd  grew  thinner,  but  the  diminished 
publicity  brought  no  improvement  to  Quisant£'s 
manner.  He  was  with  Lady  Richard  and  the 
brothers  now — May  noticed  that  nephew  and  aunt 
had  been  content  to  exchange  careless  nods — and 
Lady  Richard  made  him  nearly  his  worst.  He 
knew  that  she  did  not  like  him,  but  refused  to  ac- 
cept the  defeat ;  he  plied  her  more  and  more  freely 
with  the  airs  and  affectations  that  rendered  him 
odious  to  her ;  he  could  not  help  thinking  that  by 
enough  attention,  enough  deference,  and  enough  of 
being  interesting  he  must  in  the  end  conciliate  her 
favour.  When  May  joined  the  group,  his  manner 
appealed  from  her  friend  to  her,  bidding  Lady 
Richard  notice  how  much  more  responsive  May  was 
and  how  pleasant  he  was  to  those  who  were  pleasant 
to  him.  May  would  have  despised  him  utterly  at 
that  instant  but  for  two  things:  she  remembered 
his  moments,  and  she  perceived  that  all  the  time  he 
was  suffering  and  mastering  severe,  perhaps  poign- 
ant, pain.  But  again,  when  she  asked  him  how  he 
was,  he  smirked  and  flourished,  till  Lady  Richard 
turned  away  in  disgust  and  even  the  brothers  looked 
a  little  puzzled  and  distressed  as  they  followed  her 
to  the  buffet  and  ministered  to  her  wants. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  May,  in  a  tone  almost  sharp. 
"  No,  sit  at  once,  never  mind  whether  I'm  sitting  or 
not." 

He  obeyed  her  with  an  overdone  gesture  of  pro- 
test, but  his  face  showed  relief.  She  got  a  chair  for 
herself  and  sat  down  by  him. 


44  QUISANT£. 

"You  spoke  splendidly,"  she  said,  and  hurried 
on,  "  No,  no,  don't  thank  me,  don't  tell  me  that  you 
especially  wished  to  please  me,  or  that  my  approba- 
tion is  your  reward,  or  anything  about  beauty  or 
bright  eyes,  or  anything  in  the  very  least  like  that. 
It's  all  odious  and  I  wonder  why  you — a  man  like 
you — should  think  it  necessary  to  do  it." 

Quisant6  looked  startled  ;  he  had  been  leaning  back 
in  apparent  exhaustion,  but  now  he  sat  up  straight 
and  prepared  to  speak,  a  conciliatory  smile  on  his 
lips. 

"  No,  don't  sit  up,  lean  back.  Don't  talk,  don't 
smile,  don't  be  agreeable."  She  had  begun  to 
laugh  at  herself  by  now,  but  the  laughter  did  not 
stop  her.  "  You  were  ill,  you  were  very  ill,  you 
looked  almost  dead,  and  you  battled  with  it  splen- 
didly, and  beat  it  splendidly,  and  went  on  and  won. 
And  then  you  must — Oh,  why  do  you  ?  " 

"  Why  do  I  do  what  ?  "  he  asked,  quietly  enough 
now,  with  a  new  look  of  puzzle  and  bewilderment 
in  his  eyes,  although  his  set  smile  had  not  disap- 
peared. 

"  Why,  go  on  as  if  there'd  been  nothing  much 
really  the  matter,  as  if  you'd  had  the  vapours  or  the 
flutters,  or  something  women  have,  or  used  to  have 
when  they  were  even  sillier  than  they  are."  She 
laughed  again,  adding,  "  Really  I  was  expecting 
Dick  Benyon  to  propose  to  cut  your  stay-laces." 

The  Benyons  were  coming  back  ;  if  she  had  more 
to  say,  there  was  no  time  for  it ;  yet  she  managed 
a  whisper  as  she  shook  hands  with  him,  her  gesture 


SANDRO'S  WAY.  45 

still  forbidding  him  to  rise.  Her  face,  a  little 
flushed  with  colour,  bent  down  towards  his  and  her 
voice  was  eager  as  she  whispered, 

"  Good-night.  Be  simple,  be  yourself  ;  it's  worth 
while." 

Then  courage  failed  and  she  hurried  off  with  a 
confused  nervous  farewell  to  her  friends.  Her 
breath  came  quick  as  she  lay  back  in  the  brougham 
and  closed  her  eyes. 

Quisant£  was  tired  and  ill ;  he  was  unusually  quiet 
in  his  parting  talk  with -Lady  Richard.  Even  she 
was  sorry  for  him  ;  and  when  pity  entered  little 
Lady  Richard's  heart  it  drove  out  all  other  emo- 
tions however  strong,  and  routed  all  resolutions 
however  well-founded. 

"  You  look  dead-beat,  you  do  indeed,"  she  said. 
She  turned  to  her  husband.  "  Dick,  Mr.  Quisant£ 
must  come  and  spend  a  few  quiet  days  with  us  in 
the  country.  Something'll  happen  to  him,  if  he 
doesn't." 

Dick  could  hardly  believe  his  ears,  and  was  full  of 
delighted  gratitude ;  hitherto  Lady  Richard  had 
been  resolute  that  their  country  house  at  least  should 
be  sacred  from  Quisant£'s  feet.  He  took  his  wife's 
hand  and  pressed  it  as  he  joyfully  seconded  her  in- 
vitation. Some  of  Quisante's  effusive  politeness 
displayed  itself  again,  but  still  he  was  subdued,  and 
Lady  Richard,  full  of  her  impulse  of  compassion, 
escaped  without  realising  fully  the  enormity  of  the 
step  into  which  it  had  tempted  her. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

HE'S  COMING  ! 

DICK  BENYON  was  a  man  of  plentiful  ideas,  but 
he  found  great  difficulty  in  conveying  them  to 
others  and  even  in  expressing  them  to  himself. 
Jimmy,  his  faithful  disciple,  could  not  help  him 
here,  and  indeed  was  too  much  ashamed  of  harbour- 
ing such  things  as  ideas  to  be  of  any  service  as  an 
apostle.  All  the  ideas  were  not  Dick's  own  ;  in  the 
case  of  the  Imperial  League,  for  example,  he  merely 
floated  on  the  top  of  the  flood-tide  of  opinion,  and 
even  the  Crusade,  his  other  and  dearer  pre-occupa- 
tion,  was  the  fruit  of  the  Dean  of  St.  Neot's  brain 
as  much  as  or  even  more  than  of  his  own.  The 
Dean  never  got  the  credit  of  having  ideas  at  all, 
first  because  he  did  not  look  like  it,  being  short, 
stout,  ruddy,  and  apparently  very  fond  of  his  dinner, 
secondly  because  he  never  talked  of  his  ideas  to 
women.  Mrs.  Baxter  did  not  care  about  ideas  and 
possibly  the  Dean  generalised  rashly.  More  prob- 
ably, perhaps,  he  had  contracted  a  prejudice  against 
talking  confidentially  to  women  from  observing  the 
ways  of  some  of  his  brethren  ;  he  had  dropped  re- 
marks which  favoured  this  explanation.  Anyhow  he 
lost  not  only  the  soU  most  fruitful  for  propagation, 
but  also  the  surest  road  to  a  reputation.  Of  the  idea 
46 


HE'S  COMING!  47 

of  the  Crusade  he  was  particularly  careful  to  talk  to 
men  only  ;  women,  he  felt  sure,  would  tell  him  it  was 
superb,  and  his  wish  was  to  be  confronted  with 
its  difficulties  and  its  absurdities,  to  overcome  this 
initial  opposition  only  with  a  struggle,  and  to 
enlist  his  antagonist  as  a  fellow-warrior ;  he  had 
especial  belief  in  the  persuasiveness  of  converts. 
Unluckily,  however,  as  a  rule  only  the  first  part  of 
the  programme  passed  into  fact ;  he  got  the  absurd- 
ities and  difficulties  pointed  out  freely  enough,  the 
conversions  hung  fire.  Dick  Benyon  was  almost 
the  sole  instance  of  the  triumphant  carrying-out  of 
the  whole  scheme  ;  but  though  Dick  could  believe 
and  work,  and  could  make  Jimmy  believe  and  nearly 
make  Jimmy  work,  he  could  not  preach  himself  nor 
make  Jimmy  preach  in  tones  commanding  enough 
to  engage  the  respect  and  attention  of  the  world. 
Who  could  then?  Dick  had  answered  "  Weston 
Marchmont ;  "  the  Dean  shook  his  head  confidently 
but  wistfully  ;  he  would  have  liked  but  did  not 
expect  to  find  a  convert  there. 

Weston  Marchmont  made,  as  might  be  expected, 
the  Great  Refusal,  although  not  in  the  impressive  or 
striking  manner  which  such  a  phrase  may  seem  to 
imply.  Twisting  his  claret  glass  in  his  long  thin 
fingers,  he  observed  with  low-voiced  suavity  that  in 
ecclesiastical  matters,  as  doubtless  in  most  others,  he 
was  behind  the  times  ;  he  was  a  loyal  Establishment 
man  and  had  every  intention  of  remaining  such,  and 
for  his  own  part  he  found  it  possible  to  reconcile  the 
ultimate  postulates  of  faith  with  the  ultimate  truths 


48  QUISANT£. 

of  science.  As  soon  as  ultimates  came  on  the  scene, 
the  Dean  felt  that  the  game  was  up ;  the  Crusade 
depended  on  an  appeal  to  classes  which  must  be 
reached,  if  they  could  be  reached  at  all,  by  something 
far  short  of  ultimates.  Ultimates  were  for  the  few ; 
one  reason,  among  others,  why  Marchmont  fondly 
affected  them.  Marchmont  proceeded  to  remark 
that  in  his  doubtless  out-of-date  view  the  best  thing 
was  to  preserve  the  traditions  and  the  traditional 
limits  of  Church  work  and  Church  influence.  He  did 
not  say  in  so  many  words  that  the  Church  was  a 
good  servant  but  a  bad  master,  yet  Dick  and  the 
Dean  gathered  that  this  was  his  opinion,  and  that 
he  would  look  with  apprehension  on  any  movement 
directed  to  bringing  ecclesiastical  pressure  to  bear 
on  secular  affairs.  In  all  this  he  assumed  politely 
that  the  Crusade  could  succeed,  but  the  lift  of  his 
brows  which  accompanied  the  concession  was  very 
eloquent. 

"  Then,"  he  ended  apologetically,  "  there's  the 
danger  of  vulgarity.  One  puts  up  with  that  in 
politics,  but  I  confess  I  shrink  from  it  in  religion." 

"  What  appeals  to  everybody  is  not  necessarily 
vulgar,"  said  the  Dean. 

"  Not  necessarily,"  Marchmont  agreed,  with  the 
emphasis  on  the  second  word.  "  But,"  he  added, 
"  it's  almost  of  necessity  untrue,  and  after  all  religion 
has  to  do  with  truth."  He  was  getting  near  his 
ultimates  again. 

There  was  a  pause  ;  then  Marchmont  laughed  and 
said  jokingly, 


HE'S  COMING!  49 

"  You'll  have  to  go  to  the  Radicals,  Dick.  They're 
the  dogmatic  party  nowadays,  and  they'll  be  just  as 
ready  to  manage  your  soul  for  you  as  they  are  your 
property." 

"That's  just  what  I  don't  mean  to  do,"  said  Dick 
obstinately.  But  he  looked  a  little  uncomfortable. 
It  was  important  to  preserve  the  attitude  that  fight- 
ing the  Radicals  was  no  part  of  the  scheme  of  the 
Crusade.  Marchmont  smiled  at  the  Dean  across 
the  table. 

"  I  love  the  Church,  Mr.  Dean,"  he  said,  "  but  I'm 
afraid  of  the  churchmen." 

"  Much  what  I  feel  about  politics  and  politicians." 

"Then  if  churchmen  are  politicians  too — ?" 
Marchmont  suggested ;  the  Dean's  laughter  ad- 
mitted a  verbal  defeat.  But  when  Marchmont  had 
gone  he  shook  his  head  over  him  again,  saying, 
"  He'll  not  be  great  ;  he's  much  too  sane." 

"  He's  too  scrupulous/'  said  Dick.  The  Dean 
protested  with  a  smile.  "  I  mean  too  fastidious," 
Dick  added,  correcting  himself. 

"  Yes,  yes,  too  fastidious,"  agreed  the  Dean  con- 
tentedly. "  And  when  I  said  sane  perhaps  I  rather 
meant  cautious,  unimaginative,  and  cold."  Both 
felt  the  happier  for  the  withdrawal  of  their  hastily 
chosen  epithets. 

This  conversation  had  occurred  in  the  early  days 
of  Dick's  acquaintance  with  Alexander  Quisante, 
when,  although  already  much  taken  with  the  man, 
he  had  a  clearer  view  of  what  he  was  than  enthusi- 
asm allowed  later  on.  Rejecting  Marchmont,  or 
4 


50  QUISANT£. 

rather  acquiescing  in  Marchmont's  refusal,  on  the 
ground  of  his  excessive  caution,  his  want  of  im- 
agination, and  his  fastidiousness,  he  had  hesitated 
to  sound  Quisante"  in  regard  to  the  great  project. 
It  seemed  to  him  impossible  to  regard  his  new  friend 
as  an  ideal  leader  for  this  purpose  ;  one  reason  is 
enough  to  indicate — the  ideal  leader  should  be  ab- 
solutely unselfish  by  nature .  By  nature  Quisant6 
was  very  far  from  that,  and  his  circumstances  were 
not  such  as  to  enable  him  to  overcome  the  bent  of 
his  disposition  ;  whatever  else  he  was  or  might  be- 
come, he  would  be  self-seeking  too,  and  it  would  be 
impossible  ever  to  make  him  steadily  and  deliber- 
ately forgetful  of  himself. 

But  as  time  went  on,  another  way  opened  before 
Dick's  eyes  and  was  cautiously  and  tentatively 
hinted  at  to  his  confidant,  the  Dean.  The  Dean, 
having  seen  a  little  and  heard  much  of  Quisant6,  was 
inclined  to  be  encouraging.  There  were  in  him 
possibilities  not  to  be  found  in  Marchmont.  He 
was  not  fastidious,  he  would  not  trouble  himself  or 
other  people  about  ultimates,  above  all  he  could  be 
fired  with  imagination.  Once  that  was  achieved, 
he  would  speak  and  seem  as  though  he  were  all 
that  the  ideal  leader  ought  to  be,  as  though  inspira- 
tion filled  him  ;  he  would  express  what  Dick  could 
only  feel  and  the  Dean  do  no  more  than  adumbrate; 
nay,  in  time,  as  he  grew  zealous  in  the  cause,  his 
self-interest  and  personal  ambition  would  be  con- 
quered, or  at  least  would  be  so  blended  and  fused  with 
the  nobility  of  the  cause  as  to  lose  any  grossness  or 


HE'S  COMING!  51 

meanness  which  might  be  thought  to  characterise 
them  in  an  uncompounded  condition.  All  this  might 
be  achieved  if  only  the  great  idea  could  be  made  to 
seem  great  enough  and  the  potentialities  which  lay 
in  its  realisation  invested  with  enough  pomp  and 
dignity.  After  all  was  not  such  a  blend  of  things 
personal  and  things  beyond  and  higher  than  the 
personal  as  much  as  could  reasonably  be  expected 
from  human  beings,  and  adequate  to  the  needs  of  a 
work-a-day  world  ? 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  a  bishop,  but  I  do  mean  to 
stick  to  my  deanery  through  thick  and  thin,"  said 
the  Dean,  smiling.  Dick  understood  him  to  mean 
that  allowance  must  be  made  for  the  personal  ele- 
ment, and  that  a  man  might  serve  a  cause  very 
usefully  without  being  prepared  to  go  quite  as  far 
as  the  stake,  or  even  the  workhouse,  for  it ;  if  this 
were  not  so,  there  would  be  less  competition  for 
places  in  State  and  Church. 

Such  great  schemes  for  causing  right  ideas  to 
prevail  in  things  spiritual  and  temporal  and  for  plac- 
ing the  right  men  in  the  right  positions  to  ensure 
this  important  result  are  material  here  only  so  far 
as  they  influence  the  career  or  illustrate  the  char- 
acter of  individuals.  The  Crusade  did  not  perhaps 
do  as  much  towards  altering  the  face  of  the  world, 
or  even  of  this  island,  as  it  was  intended  to,  but  it 
had  a  considerable,  if  temporary,  effect  on  current 
politics,  and  it  appeared  to  Quisant6  to  be  at  once  a 
fine  conception  and  a  notable  opportunity  ;  between 
these  two  aspects  he  did  not,  as  Dick  Benyon  had 


52  QUISANTE. 

foreseen,  draw  any  very  rigid  line.  To  make  the 
Church  again  a  power  with  the  masses  ;  this  done,  to 
persuade  the  masses  to  use  their  power  under  the 
leadership  of  the  Church  ;  this  done,  to  harmonise  un- 
impaired liberty  of  conscience  with  a  whole-hearted 
devotion  to  truth,  and  to  devote  both  to  ends  which 
should  unite  the  maximum  of  zeal  for  the  Commu- 
nity with  the  minimum  of  political  innovation,  were 
aims  which,  if  they  were  nothing  else,  might  at  least 
claim  to  be  worthy  to  exercise  the  intellect  of  supe- 
rior men  and  to  inspire  the  eloquence  of  orators. 
That  a  set  of  people  on  the  other  side  was  profess- 
ing to  do  the  same  things,  with  totally  different 
and  utterly  wrong  notions  of  the  results  to  be  ob- 
tained, afforded  the  whet  of  antagonism,  and  let  in 
dialectic  and  partisanship  as  a  seasoning  to  relieve 
the  high  severity  of  the  main  topic.  Quisant£'s 
personal  relations  with  the  Church  had  never  been 
intimate;  he  was  perhaps  the  better  able  to  lay 
hold  of  its  romantic  and  picturesque  aspect.  The 
Dean,  for  instance,  was  hampered  and  at  times  dis- 
couraged by  a  knowledge  of  details.  Dick  Benyon 
had  to  struggle  against  the  family  point  of  view  as 
regarded  the  family  livings.  Quisant£  came  almost 
as  a  stranger,  ready  to  be  impressed,  to  take  what 
suited  him,  to  form  the  desired  opinion  and  no 
other  ;  if  a  legal  metaphor  may  be  allowed,  to  master 
what  was  in  his  brief,  to  use  that  to  the  full,  and  to 
know  nothing  to  the  contrary.  The  Empire  was  very 
well,  but  it  was  a  crowded  field ;  the  new  subject 
had  advantages  all  its  own  and  especial  allurements. 


HE'S  COMING!  53 

Yet  Miss  Quisant£  laughed,  as  a  man's  relatives 
often  will  although  the  rest  of  the  world  is  unim- 
peachably  grave.  For  any  person  engaged  in  get- 
ting a  complete  view  of  Alexander  Quisant6  it  was 
well  to  turn  from  Dick  Benyon  to  Aunt  Maria.  So 
May  Gaston  found  when  she  took  the  old  woman  at 
her  word  and  went  to  see  her,  unaccompanied  by 
Lady  Attlebridge.  She  listened  awhile  to  her 
caustic  talk  and  then  charged  her  roundly  with  not 
doing  justice  to  her  nephew. 

"  Sandro's  caught  you  too,  has  he  ? "  was  her 
hostess's  immediate  retort. 

"  No,  he  hasn't  caught  me,  as  you  call  it,  Miss 
Quisante,"  said  May,  smiling.  "  I  dislike  a  great 
deal  in  him."  She  paused  before  adding,  "What's 
more,  I've  told  him  so." 

"  He'll  be  very  pleased  at  that." 

"  He  didn't  seem  to  be." 

"  I  didn't  say  he  was  pleased,  I  said  he  would 
be,"  remarked  Aunt  Maria  placidly.  "  No  doubt 
you  vexed  him  at  the  time,  but  when  he's  thought 
it  over,  he'll  be  flattered  at  your  showing  so  much 
interest  in  him." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  him  to  take  it  like  that,"  said 
May  thoughtfully. 

"  It's  the  true  way  to  take  it,  though." 

"  Well  then,  I  suppose  it  is.  Except  that  there's 
no  reason  why  my  interest  should  flatter  any- 
body." She  determined  on  an  offensive  movement 
against  the  sharp  confident  old  lady.  "  All  his 
faults  are  merely  faults  of  bringing  up.  You 


54  QUISANT£. 

brought  him  up ;  why  didn't  you  bring  him  up 
better?" 

Miss  Quisant<§  looked  at  her  for  several  moments. 

"  I  didn't  bring  him  up  well,  that's  true  enough," 
she  said.  "  But,  my  dear,  don't  you  run  off  with 
the  idea  that  there's  nothing  wrong  with  Sandro 
except  his  manners." 

"That's  exactly  the  idea  I  have  about  him,"  May 
persisted  defiantly. 

"  Ah  !  "  sighed  Aunt  Maria  resignedly.  "  Proba- 
bly you'll  never  know  him  well  enough  to  find  out 
your  mistake." 

Warnings  pique  curiosity  as  often  as  they  arouse 
prudence. 

"  I  intend  to  know  him  much  better  if  he'll  let 
me,"  said  May. 

"  Oh,  he'll  let  you."  The  old  lady's  gaze  was 
very  intent ;  she  had  by  now  made  up  her  mind  that 
this  must  be  Sandro's  Empress.  Had  she  been  om- 
nipotent, she  would  at  that  moment  have  decreed 
that  Sandro  should  never  see  his  Empress  again  ; 
she  was  quite  clear  that  he  and  his  Empress  would 
not  be  good  for  one  another.  "  I  begin  to  hear 
them  talking  about  him,"  she  went  on  with  a  chuckle. 
"  He's  coming  into  fashion,  he's  to  be  the  new  man 
for  a  while.  You  London  people  love  a  new  man 
just  as  you  do  a  new  craze.  You're  fine  talkers  too. 
I  like  your  buzz.  It's  a  great  hum,  hum,  buzz, 
buzz.  It  turns  some  men's  heads,  but  it  only 
sharpens  others'  wits ;  it  won't  turn  Sandro's  head." 

"  I'm  glad  you  allow  him  some  virtues." 


HE'S  COMING!  55 

"  Oh,  if  it's  a  virtue  to  look  so  straight  forward 
to  where  you  mean  to  get  that  nothing  will  turn 
your  head  away  from  it." 

"  That's  twisting  your  own  words,  Miss  Quisant£. 
I  don't  think  he's  that  sort  of  man  at  all  ;  he  isn't 
the  least  your — your  iron  adventurer.  He's  full  of 
emotion,  of  feeling,  of — well,  almost  of  poetry.  Oh, 
not  always  good  poetry,  I  know.  But  how  funny 
that  I  should  be  defending  him  and  you  attacking 
him  ;  it  would  be  much  more  natural  the  other  way 
round." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  I  know  him  better  than  you 
do.  Now  he's  to  champion  the  Church — or  some 
such  nonsense !  What's  Sandro  got  to  do  with 
your  Church  ?  What  does  he  care  about  it  ?" 

"  He  cared  about  his  subject  the  other  evening  ; 
you  must  admit  that." 

"  Oh,  his  subject  !  Yes,  he  cares  about  it  while 
it's  his  subject." 

May  laughed.  "  I  want  to  take  just  one  liberty, 
Miss  Quisantd,"  she  said.  "  May  I  ?  I  want  to 
tell  you  that  I  think  you're  a  great  deal  more  than 
half  wrong  about  your  nephew." 

"  Even  if  I  am,  I'm  right  enough  for  practical 
purposes  with  the  other  part,"  said  the  obstinate 
old  woman.  She  leant  forward  and  spoke  with  a 
sudden  bitter  emphasis.  "  It's  not  all  outside,  he's 
wrong  inside  too." 

"  It's  too  bad  of  you,  oh,  it  really  is,"  cried  May 
indignantly.  "  You  who  ought  to  stand  up  for  him 
and  be  his  greatest  friend  !  " 


56  QUISANTE. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  see  !  I've  overshot  my  mark.  I'm  a 
blunderer." 

"  Your  mark  ?  What  mark  ?  Why  do  you  want 
to  tell  me  about  him  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  don't,"  said  Miss  Quisant£,  folding  her  hands 
in  her  lap  and  assuming  an  air  of  resolute  reticence. 
But  her  eyes  dwelt  now  with  an  imperfectly  dis- 
guised kindness  on  the  tall  fair  girl  who  pleaded  for 
justice  and  saw  no  justice  in  the  answers  that  she 
got.  But  the  more  Aunt  Maria  inclined  to  like 
May  Gaston,  the  more  determined  was  she  not  to 
palter  with  truth,  the  more  determined  to  have  no 
hand  in  giving  the  girl  a  false  idea  of  Sandro.  So 
far  as  lay  in  her  power,  Sandro's  Empress  should 
know  the  whole  truth  about  Sandro. 

The  buzz  of  London,  to  which  Miss  Quisant6  re- 
ferred as  beginning  to  sound  her  nephew's  name, 
revealed  to  the  ear  three  tolerably  distinct  notes. 
There  were  the  people  who  laughed  and  said  the 
thing  was  no  affair  of  theirs  ;  this  section  was  of 
course  the  largest,  embracing  all  the  naturally  in- 
different as  well  as  the  solid  mass  of  the  opposite 
political  party.  There  were  the  people  who  were 
angry  at  Dick  Benyon's  interference  and  at  his 
prottgfs  impudence  ;  in  the  ranks  of  these  were 
most  of  Dick's  political  comrades,  together  with 
their  wives  and  daughters.  Here  the  resentment 
was  at  the  idea  that  there  was  any  vacancy,  actual 
or  prospective,  which  could  not  be  filled  perfectly 
well  without  the  intrusion  of  such  a  person  as  Qui- 
sant£.  Thirdly  there  was  the  small  but  gradually 


HE'S  COMING!  57 

growing  group  which  inclined  to  think  that  there 
was  something  in  Dick's  notions  and  a  good  deal  in 
his  friend's  head.  A  reinforcement  came  no  doubt 
from  the  persons  who  were  naturally  prone  to  love 
the  new  and  took  up  Quisant6  as  a  welcome  change, 
as  something  odd,  with  a  flavour  of  the  unknown 
and  just  a  dash  of  the  mystery-man  about  him. 

The  Quisant£-ites  had  undoubtedly  something  to 
say  for  themselves  and  something  to  show  for  their 
faith.  Handicapped  as  he  was  by  his  sensational 
success  at  the  Imperial  League  dinner,  with  its 
theatrical  and  faintly  suspicious  climax,  Quisant6 
had  begun  well  in  the  House.  He  broke  away  from 
his  mentor's  advice  ;  Dick  had  been  for  more  sen- 
sation, for  storming  the  House ;  Quisant£  rejected 
the  idea  and  made  a  quiet,  almost  hesitating,  entry 
on  the  scene.  He  displayed  here  a  peculiarity 
which  soon  came  to  be  remarked  in  him  ;  on  public 
occasions  and  in  regard  to  public  audiences  he  pos- 
sessed a  tact  and  a  power  of  understanding  the  feel- 
ings of  his  company  which  entirely  and  even  con- 
spicuously failed  him  in  private  life.  The  House 
did  not  like  being  stormed,  especially  on  the  strength 
of  an  outside  reputation  ;  he  addressed  it  modestly, 
bringing  into  play,  however,  resources  with  which 
he  had  not  been  credited — a  touch  of  humour  and  a 
pretty  turn  of  sarcasm.  He  knew  his  facts  too,  and 
disposed  of  contradictions  with  a  Blue-book  and  a 
smile.  The  hypercritical  were  not  silenced  ;  March- 
mont  still  found  the  smile  oily,  and  his  friends  traced 
the  humour  to  districts  which  they  supposed  to  lie 


58  QUISANT£. 

somewhere  east  of  the  London  Hospital  ;  but  they 
were  bound  to  admit  sorrowfully  that,  although  all 
this  was  true,  it  might  not,  under  democratic  insti- 
tutions, prove  fatal  to  a  career. 

Dick  Benyon  was  enthusiastic;  he  told  his 
friend  that  he  had  scored  absolutely  off  his  own 
bat  and  that  there  was  and  could  be  no  more 
question  of  help  or  obligation.  He  was  rather 
surprised  by  a  display  of  feeling  on  Quisante's 
part  which  seemed  to  indicate  almost  an  excess 
of  gratitude ;  but  Quisant£  felt  his  foot  on  the 
ladder,  and  the  wells  of  emotion  were  full  to  over- 
flowing. Dick  escaped  in  considerable  embarrass- 
ment, telling  himself  that  remarkable  men  could 
not  be  expected  to  behave  just  like  other  men,  like 
his  sort  of  man,  but  wishing  they  would.  None  the 
less  he  praised  what  he  hardly  liked,  and  the  repu- 
tation of  being  a  good  friend  was  added  to  Qui- 
sante's credentials.  Lastly,  but  far  from  least  in 
importance,  a  story  went  the  rounds  that  a  very 
great  veteran,  who  had  taken  a  keen  interest  in 
Weston  Marchmont,  and  designated  him  for  high 
place  in  a  future  not  remote,  had  recently  warned 
him,  in  apparent  jest  indeed  but  with  unmistakable 
significance,  that  it  would  not  do  to  take  things  too 
easily,  or  let  a  rival  obtain  too  long  a  start.  There 
was  nobody  of  whom  the  Statesman  could  be  sup- 
posed to  be  thinking,  except  the  dark  horse  that 
Dick  Benyon  had  brought  into  the  betting — Alex- 
ander Quisante  !  Such  predictions  from  such  quar- 
ters have  no  small  power  of  self-verification ;  they 


HE'S  COMING!  59 

predispose  lesser  men  to  a  fatalistic  acquiescence 
which  smoothes  the  way  of  the  prophecy. 

Marchmont,  scorning  the  rival,  was  inclined  to 
despise  the  dangers  of  the  contest,  but  his  supineness 
may  have  been  in  part  due  to  the  occupation  of  his 
mind  by  another  interest.  He  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  wanted  May  Gaston  for  his  wife 
and  that  she  would  accept  his  proposal.  A  few  days 
before  the  Easter  holidays  began  he  betook  himself 
to  Lady  Attlebridge's  with  the  intention  of  settling 
the  matter  there  and  then.  The  purpose  of  his 
coming  seemed  to  be  divined  ;  he  was  shown  direct 
to  May's  own  room,  and  found  her  there  alone.  She 
had  been  reading  a  letter  and  laid  it  down  on  a  table 
by  her  ;  Marchmont  could  not  help  his  eye  catching 
the  large  printed  address  at  the  head  of  the  sheet  of 
paper,  "  Ashwood."  Ashwood  was  Dick  Benyon's 
country  place.  A  moment  later  May  explained  the 
letter. 

"  I've  had  a  wail  from  Amy  Benyon,"  she  said. 
"She  wants  me  to  go  to  them  for  Easter  and  com- 
fort her.  Look  what  she  writes  :  "  You  must  come, 
dear.  I  must  be  helped  through,  I  must  have  a  re- 
fuge. How  in  the  world  I  ever  did  such  a  thing  I 
don't  know !  But  I  did  and  I  can't  help  it  now. 
He's  coming!  So  you  must  come.  We  expect 
the  Baxters  and  Mr.  Morewood.  But  I  want 
you." 

"What  has  she  done?  Who's  coming?"  asked 
Marchmont. 

"  Mr.  Quisante." 


6o  QUISANTfi. 

He  paused  for  a  moment  before  he  said,  "  You 
won't  go,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  must  go  if  Amy  wants  me  as  much  as  that. 
Besides — well,  perhaps  it'll  be  interesting." 

A  chill  fell  on  Marchmont,  and  its  influence  spread 
to  his  companion.  Here  at  least  he  had  hoped  to 
be  rid  of  Quisante,  to  find  a  place  where  the  man 
could  not  be  met,  and  people  to  whom  the  man  was 
as  a  friend  impossible.  May  read  his  thoughts,  but 
her  purpose  wavered.  She  liked  him  very  much; 
that  hot  rebellious  fit,  which  made  her  impatient  of 
his  limits,  was  not  on  her  now.  He  had  found  her 
in  a  more  reasonable  normal  mood,  when  his  ad- 
vantages pleaded  hard  for  him,  and  the  limits  seemed 
figments  of  a  disorderly  transient  fancy.  Thus  he 
had  come  happily,  and  success  had  been  in  the  mood 
to  kiss  his  standards. 

"  I  wonder  you  can  endure  the  man  in  the  same 
house  with  you,"  he  said. 

She  made  no  answer  except  to  smile,  and  he  spoke 
no  more  of  Quisant£.  To  him  it  seemed  that  his  en- 
emy passed  then  and  there  from  thought,  as  his  name 
disappeared  from  the  conversation.  But  his  own 
words  had  raised  difficulties  and  turned  the  smooth 
path  rough.  They  had  renewed  something  of  the 
rebellious  fit  and  given  fresh  life  to  the  disorderly 
fancies.  They  had  roused  her  ready  apprehen- 
sive pride,  her  swift  resentment  at  the  idea  of  hav- 
ing her  friends  or  her  associates  chosen  for  her.  She 
would  have  said  most  sincerely  then  that  Marchmont 
was  far  more  to  her  in  her  heart  than  Quisant6  was 


HE'S  COMING!  61 

or  could  be,  but  neither  from  Marchmont  nor  from 
any  man  would  she  take  orders  to  drop  Quisant£. 
While  he  opened  his  tale  of  love,  her  fingers  played 
with  the  invitation  to  Ashwood  and  her  eyes  rested 
on  Lady  Richard's  despairing  declaration  of  the 
inevitable — "  He's  coming  !  " 

He  almost  won  her  ;  his  soft  "  Can  you  love  me  ?  " 
went  very  near  her  heart.  She  wanted  to  answer 
"Yes"  and  felt  sure  that  it  would  be  in  reality  a  true 
response,  and  that  happiness  would  wait  on  and 
reward  the  decisive  word.  But  she  was  held  back 
by  an  unconquerable  indecision,  a  refusal  (as  it 
seemed)  of  her  whole  being  to  be  committed  to  the 
pledge.  She  had  not  resented  the  confidence  of  his 
wooing — she  had  given  him  some  cause  to  be  con- 
fident ;  she  pitied  and  even  hated  the  distress  into 
which  her  doubt  threw  him.  Yet  she  could  do  no 
more  than  say  "  I  don't  know  yet."  He  moved  away 
from  her. 

"  You'd  better  go  away  and  leave  me  altogether," 
she  said. 

"  I  won't  do  that.     I  can't." 

"  I  can  say  nothing  else — I  don't  know  yet.  You 
must  give  me  time." 

"  Ah,  you  mean  '  yes  ' !  "  His  voice  grew  assured 
again  and  joyful. 

She  weighed  the  words  in  which  she  answered  him. 

"  No.  If  I  meant  yes,  I'd  say  it.  I  wouldn't 
shilly-shally.  I  simply  don't  know  yet." 

He  left  her  and  paced  the  length  of  the  room, 
frowning.  Her  hesitation  puzzled  him ;  he  failed  to 


62  QUISANT£. 

trace  its  origin  and  fretted  against  a  barrier  that  he 
felt  but  could  not  see.  She  sat  silent,  looking  at 
him  in  a  distressed  fashion  and  restlessly  fingering 
Lady  Richard's  invitation.  She  was  no  less  troubled 
than  he  and  almost  as  puzzled ;  for  the  feeling  that 
held  her  back  even  while  she  wanted  to  go  forward 
was  vague,  formless,  empty  of  anything  definite 
enough  to  lay  hold  of  and  bring  forward  as  the  plea 
that  justified  her  wavering. 

"  I  ought  to  say  no,  since  I  can't  say  yes.  This 
isn't  fair  to  you,"  she  murmured. 

He  protested  that  anything  was  better  than  no,  and 
his  protest  was  manifestly  eager  and  sincere  ;  but  a 
touch  of  resentment  could  not  be  kept  out  of  his 
voice.  She  should  have  a  reason  to  give  him,  some- 
thing he  could  combat,  disprove,  or  ridicule;  she 
gave  him  no  opening*  he  could  not  answer  an  ob- 
jection that  she  would  not  formulate.  He  pressed 
this  on  her  and  she  made  no  attempt  to  defend  her- 
self, merely  repeating  that  she  could  not  say  yes 
now. 

"  I've  lost  you,  I  suppose,  and  no  doubt  I  shall  be 
very  sorry,"  she  said. 

At  that  he  came  up  to  her  again. 

"  You  haven't  lost  me  and  you  never  will,"  he  said. 
"  I'll  come  to  you  again  before  long.  I  think  you're 
strange  to-day,  not  quite  yourself,  not  quite  the  old 
May.  It's  as  if  something  had  got  between  us.  Well, 
I'll  wait  till  it  gets  out  of  the  way  again." 

Not  so  much  his  words  as  his  voice  and  his  eyes 
told  her  of  a  love  deeper  in  him  and  stronger  than 


HE'S  COMING!  63 

she  had  given  him  credit  for ;  he  lived  so  much  in 
repression  and  exercised  so  careful  a  guard  over  any 
display  of  feeling.  She  liked  the  repression  no  less 
than  the  feeling  and  was  again  drawn  towards  him. 

"  I  wish  I  could,"  she  murmured.  "  Honestly,  I 
wish  I  could." 

He  pressed  her  no  more ;  if  he  had,  she  might 
possibly  at  last  have  given  a  reluctant  assent.  That 
he  would  not  have,  even  had  it  been  in  his  power 
to  gain  it. 

"  I'll  come  back — after  the  holidays,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up  and  met  his  glance. 

"  Yes,  after  the  holidays,"  she  repeated  absently. 

"  You  go  to  Ashwood  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause  before  she  answered.  It  came 
into  her  mind  suddenly  that  it  would  have  been 
strange  to  go  to  Ashwood  as  Weston  Marchmont's 
promised  wife.  Why  she  could  not  quite  tell ;  per- 
haps because  such  a  position  would  set  her  very 
much  outside  of  all  that  was  being  thought  and 
talked  of  there,  indeed  in  a  quasi-antagonism  to  it. 
Anyhow  the  position  would  make  her  feel  quite 
differently  towards  it  all. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  at  last,  and  mustered  a  laugh 
as  she  added,  "  I'm  not  so  particular  as  you,  you 
know.  And  Amy  wants  me." 

"  I  wish  you  always  did  what  people  want  you 
to,"  said  he,  smiling. 

Their  parting  was  in  this  lighter  vein,  although  on 
his  side  still  tender  and  on  hers  penitent.  In  both 
was  a  consciousness  of  not  understanding,  of  being 


64  QUISANT£. 

somehow  apart,  of  an  inexplicable  difficulty  in 
taking  one  another's  point  of  view.  The  solution 
of  sympathy,  the  break  that  May  had  talked  of, 
made  itself  apparent  again.  In  spite  of  self-re- 
proaches, her  strongest  feeling,  when  she  was  left 
alone,  was  of  joy  that  her  freedom  still  was  hers. 


CHAPTER   V. 

WHIMSY-WHAMSIES. 

AT  Ashwood  the  sun  was  sinking  after  a  bright 
April  afternoon.  Mrs.  Baxter  sat  in  a  chair  on  the 
lawn  and  discoursed  wisdom  to  May  Gaston  and 
Morewood.  The  rest  of  the  party  had  gone  for  a 
walk  to  the  top  of  what  Lady  Richard  called 
"Duty  Hill";  it  was  the  excursion  obligatory  on 
all  guests. 

"  The  real  reason,"  remarked  Mrs.  Baxter,  who 
was  making  a  garment — she  was  under  spiritual  con- 
tract to  make  two  a  month — •"  why  the  Dean  hasn't 
risen  higher  is  because  he  always  has  some  whimsy- 
whamsy  in  his  head." 

"  What  are  they?  I  never  have  'em,"  said  More- 
wood,  relighting  his  pipe. 

"  You  never  have  anything  else,"  said  Mrs.  Bax- 
ter in  a  brief  but  sufficient  aside.  "And,  my  dear," 
she  continued  to  May,  "  what  you  want  in  a  bishop 
is  reliability." 

"  The  only  thing  I  want  in  a  bishop  is  absence," 
grunted  Morewood. 

"Reliability?"  murmured  May,  half  assenting, 
half  questioning. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter,  biting  her 
thread.  "  Reliability.  I  shall  finish  this  petticoat 
5  65 


66  QUISANT£. 

to-morrow  unless  I  have  to  drive  with  Lady  Rich- 
ard. You  don't  want  him  to  be  original,  or  to  do 
much,  except  his  confirmations  and  so  on,  of  course  ; 
but  you  do  want  to  be  sure  that  he  won't  fly  out  at 
something  or  somebody.  Dan  got  a  reputation  for 
not  being  quite  reliable.  I  don't  know  how,  because 
I  haven't  time  to  go  into  his  notions.  But  there  it 
was.  Somebody  told  the  Prime  Minister  and  he 
crossed  out  Dan's  name  and  put  in  John  Went- 
worth's." 

Morewood  yawned  obtrusively.  "  What  a  shame  ! " 
May  murmured  at  random. 

"  It's  just  the  same  with  a  husband,"  Mrs.  Baxter 
observed. 

"  Only  it's  rather  more  difficult  to  scratch  out  his 
name  and  put  in  John  Wentworth's,"  Morewood 
suggested. 

May  laughed.  "  But  anyhow  the  Dean's  a  good 
husband,  isn't  he,  Mrs.  Baxter?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  dear.  The  same  men  very  seldom 
fly  out  over  notions  and  over  women." 

Morewood  raised  himself  to  a  sitting  posture  and 
observed  solemnly, 

"  The  whole  history  of  science,  art,  and  literature 
contradicts  that  last  observation." 

Mrs.  Baxter  looked  at  him  for  a  brief  moment  and 
went  on  with  the  petticoat.  May  interpreted  her 
look. 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  the  whole  history  !  "  she 
laughed.  But  a  moment  later  she  went  on,  "  I  think 
I  rather  like  whimsy-whamsies,  though." 


WHIMSY-WHAMSIES.  67 

"  I  should  think  you  did,"  said  Morewood. 

"A  man  ought  to  have  a  few,"   May  suggested. 

"  A  sort  of  trimming  to  the  leg  of  mutton  ?  Only 
take  care  the  mutton's  there  !  " 

"Oh,  not  the  mustard  without  the  beef!  "  cried 
May. 

"  Now  there's  Canon  Grinling,*"  said  Mrs.  Baxter. 
"  That's  the  man  I  admire." 

"  Pray  tell  us  about  him,"  urged  Morewood. 

"  He's  content  to  preach  in  his  turn  and  work  his 
parish." 

"  How  much  better  than  working  his  head !  " 

"  And  he'll  be  a  bishop — at  least." 

"  Is  there  anything  worse  ?  "  growled  Morewood 
disconsolately. 

Mrs.  Baxter  never  became  angry  with  him  ;  she 
turned  a  fresh  side  of  the  petticoat,  smiled  sedately, 
and  went  on  with  her  work. 

"  We  had  whimsy-whamsies  last  night,  hadn't 
we  ?  "  asked  May. 

"  I  went  to  bed,"  said  Morewood. 

"  But  Jenkins  in  the  next  parish,  who  has  eight 
children,  must  take  up  with  the  Salvation  Army. 
So  there's  an  end  of  him,"  continued  Mrs.  Baxter. 
"  Not  that  I  pity  him — only  her." 

"  They  talked  till  two.  I  sat  up,  looking  plainer 
and  plainer  every  minute." 

"  Who  was  talking  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  Dean  and  Dick."  She  paused  and 
added,  "  And  later  on  Mr.  Quisante"." 

"  Quisante"  grows  more  and  more  anomalous  every 


68  QUISANT£. 

day.  It's  monstrous  of  a  man  to  defy  one's  power 
of  judgment  as  he  does." 

"  Does  he  defy  yours  ?  " 

"  Absolutely.     And  I  hate  it." 

"  I  rather  like  it.  You  know  so  well  what  most 
people  are  like  in  half-an-hour." 

"  I'm  splendidly  forward,"  remarked  Mrs.  Baxter, 
"  This  isn't  an  April  one.  I've  done  them,  and  this 
is  my  first  May." 

It  was  impossible  not  to  applaud  and  sympathise, 
for  it  was  no  later  than  the  2/th  of  April.  The 
friendly  task  performed,  Morewood  went  on, 

"You're  friends  again,  aren't  you?" 

"  Well,  partly.  He  spoke  to  me  last  night  for 
almost  the  first  time." 

"  What  was  the  quarrel  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  his  manners  were  bad ;  and  he  proved 
how  right  I  was  by  getting  into  a  temper."  She 
was  silent  a  moment.  Morewood  saw  her  smile  and 
then  frown  in  apparent  vexation.  Then  she  looked 
down  at  him  suddenly  and  said,  "  But  then — if 
you'd  heard  him  last  night !  " 

"  There  it  is  again  !  "  said  Morewood.  "  That's 
what  annoys  me  so.  In  common  with  most  of  man- 
kind, I  like  to  be  able  to  label  a  man  and  put  him 
in  his  compartment." 

"  That's  just  what  you  can't  do  with  Mr.  Qui- 
santeV' 

A  loud  merry  boyish  laugh  sounded  from  the 
shrubbery  behind  him.  Then  Lady  Richard  came 
out,  attended  by  young  Fred  Wentworth,  son  of 


WHIMSY-WHAMSIES.  69 

that  John  whose  name  had  been  put  in  when  the 
Dean's  was  scratched  out  owing  to  a  suspicion  of 
whimsy-whamsies.  Fred  was  a  lively  fellow,  whose 
trinity  of  occupations  consisted  of  shooting,  polo, 
and  flirting  ;  they  are  set  down  in  his  own  order  of 
merit  ;  by  profession  he  was  a  soldier,  and  just  now 
he  adored  Lady  Richard  hopelessly ;  he  was  tall, 
handsome,  and  no  more  steady  than  the  sons  of 
ordinary  men. 

"  We  gave  them  the  slip  beautifully,  didn't  we  ?  " 
he  was  asking  in  exultation.  "Think  they're  still 
on  the  top  of  the  hill,  jawing,  Lady  Richard  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mind  how  long  they  stay  there,"  she  an- 
swered, as  she  came  across  to  the  group  on  the 
lawn,  a  dainty  youthful  little  figure,  in  her  white 
frock  and  straw  hat.  "And  how  have  you  three 
been  amusing  yourselves?"  she  inquired.  "  I  de- 
clare my  headaches,  Fred,"  she  complained.  "  Now 
is  the  Church  to  swallow  the  State,  or  the  other 
way  round,  or  are  they  to  swallow  one  another,  or 
what?" 

"  Such  a  fine  day  too  !  "  observed  Mrs.  Baxter. 
Morewood  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  To  waste  it  on  whimsy-whamsies  !  "  cried  May, 
joining  in  his  mirth. 

She  looked  so  handsome  in  her  merriment  that 
Fred's  eyes  dwelt  on  her  for  a  moment,  a  new  no- 
tion showing  in  their  pleasant  expanse  of  blue  sim- 
plicity. But  loyalty's  the  thing — and  a  pleasant 
thing  too  when  Lady  Richard  stood  for  it.  Besides 
May  Gaston  was  rather  serious  as  a  rule  and  given 


;o  QUISANTfi. 

to  asking  questions;  she  might  be  able  to  flirt 
though  ;  she  just  might — if  there  had  happened  to 
be  anybody  for  her  to  flirt  with  ;  he  pitied  her  a 
little  because  there  was  not. 

"Mrs.  Baxter,"  said  Morewood  suddenly,  "have 
you  ever  thought  what  would  happen  if  you  stopped 
making  petticoats?"  She  did  not  answer.  "It 
illustrates,"  he  went  on,  "  the  absurd  importance  we 
attach  to  ourselves.  The  race  would  get  itself 
clothed  somehow,  even  as  Church  and  State  will  go 
on,  although  they  fail  to  settle  that  question  of  the 
swallowing  on  the  top  of  the  hill." 

May  alone  was  listening.  "  Don't  you  think  it 
all  makes  any  difference  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Not  enough  to  stop  enjoying  one's  self  about, 
or  to  take  any  risks  for." 

"  I  disbelieve  you  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul ; 
and,  what's  more,  you  don't  believe  yourself,"  she 
said.  "  To  take  risks  is  what  we  were  given  life  for, 
I  believe." 

"  Whimsy-whamsies !  "  he  jeered,  jerking  his 
thumb  warningly  towards  Mrs.  Baxter. 

To  May  it  seemed  curious  how  an  utter  absence 
of  speculation  and  an  honest  engrossment  in  every- 
day cares,  hopes,  and  duties  appeared  to  produce  an 
attitude  of  mind  similar  in  many  ways  to  that  caused 
by  an  extensive  survey  of  thought  and  a  careful  de- 
tachment of  spirit  from  the  pursuits  of  the  vulgar. 
The  expression  was  different ;  the  man  who  was 
now  so  much  in  her  thoughts,  Weston  Marchmont, 
would  not  have  denounced  whimsy-whamsies.  He 


WHIMSY-WHAMSIES.  71 

would  have  claimed  an  open  mind  and  protested 
that  he  was  ready  to  entertain  every  notion  on  its 
merits.  But  temper  and  taste  led  to  the  same  end 
as  ignorance  and  simplicity  ;  the  philosopher  and 
the  housewife  met  on  a  common  ground  of  disap- 
proval and  disdain.  Mrs.  Baxter  kept  her  house 
and  made  petticoats.  Marchmont  read  his  books, 
mixed  with  his  world,  and  did  his  share  in  his  obvi- 
ous duty  of  governing  the  country.  Misty  dreams, 
great  cloudy  visions,  vague  ideals,  were  forsworn 
of  both  ;  they  were  all  whimsy-whamsies,  the  hardly 
excusable  occupation  of  an  idle  day  in  the  country. 
Was  such  a  coincidence  of  opinion  conclusive  ?  Per- 
haps. But  then,  as  she  had  hinted  to  Morewood, 
what  of  life  ?  Was  it  not  conclusive  as  to  the  merits 
of  that  also  ?  Suddenly  Fred  Wentworth's  voice 
broke  across  her  meditation. 

"  If  you  asked  me  what  I  wanted,"  he  said  in  a 
tone  of  great  seriousness,  "  upon  my  honour  I  don't 
know  what  I  should  say,  except  another  pony." 
He  paused  and  added,  "  A  real  good  'un,  you 
know,  Lady  Richard." 

You  might  trust  in  God  in  an  almost  Quietist 
fashion  (nothing  less  was  at  the  bottom  of  Mrs. 
Baxter's  homely  serenity),  you  might  exhaust  philo- 
sophy and  the  researches  of  the  wise,  or  you  might 
merely  be  in  excellent  health  and  spirits.  Any  of 
these  three  seemed  enough  to  exclude  that  painful 
reaching  out  to  dim  unlikely  possibilities  which  must 
in  her  mind  henceforward  be  nicknamed  whimsy- 
whamsies.  But  to  May's  temper  the  question  about 


72  QUISANTE. 

life  came  up  again.  She  swayed  between  the  op- 
posing sides,  as  she  had  swayed  between  yes  and 
no  when  Marchmont  challenged  her  with  his 
love. 

Lady  Richard's  verdict  about  Quisante — she  gave 
it  with  an  air  of  laboured  reasonableness — was  that 
he  proved  worse  on  the  whole  than  even  she  had 
anticipated.  This  pessimistic  view  was  due  in  part 
to  the  constant  and  wearing  difficulty  of  getting 
Fred  Wentworth  to  be  civil  to  him  ;  yet  May  Gas- 
ton  was  half-inclined  to  fall  in  with  it.  The  attitude 
of  offence  which  he  had  at  first  maintained  towards 
her  was  marked  by  peevishness,  not  by  dignity,  and 
when  it  was  relaxed  his  old  excessive  politeness 
revived  in  full  force.  He  had  few  '  moments  '  either  ; 
and  the  one  reported  to  her  with  enthusiasm 
by  Dick  Benyon  took  place  on  Duty  Hill  while 
she  was  gossiping  on  the  lawn.  Disappointed  in 
the  half-conscious  anticipation  which  had  brought 
her  to  Ashwood,  she  began  to  veer  towards  the 
obvious,  towards  safety,  and  towards  Weston  March- 
mont. He  had  allowed  himself  one  letter,  not  urging 
her,  but  very  gracefully  and  feelingly  expressed.  As 
she  walked  through  the  village,  the  telegraph-office 
tempted  her;  her  life  could  be  settled  for  sixpence, 
and  there  would  be  no  need  of  further  thought  or 
trouble.  She  was  again  held  back  by  a  rather  im- 
palpable influence,  by  a  vague  unwillingness  to  cut 
herself  off  (as  she  would  by  such  a  step)  from  the 
mental  stir  which,  beneath  the  apparent  quiet  of 
country-house  life,  permeated  Ashwood.  The  stir 


WHIMSY-WHAMSIES.  73 

was  there,  though  it  defied  definition  ;  it  was  not 
due  to  Dick  or  the  Dean,  though  they  shared  in  it ; 
it  was  the  mark  of  Quisante"'s  presence,  the  atmos- 
phere he  carried  with  him.  She  recognised  this 
with  a  mixture  of  feelings;  she  was  ashamed  to 
dwell  on  his  small  faults  in  face  of  such  a  thing; 
she  was  afraid  to  find  how  strong  his  attraction 
grew  in  spite  of  the  intolerable  drawbacks.  Waver- 
ing again,  she  could  not  decide  whether  his  faults 
were  fatal  defects  or  trifling  foibles. 

She  saw  that  the  Dean,  shared  her  doubts  and  her 
puzzle.  He  had  a  little  trick,  an  involuntary  and 
unconscious  shake  of  the  head  which  indicated,  as 
her  study  of  it  told  her,  not  a  mere  difference  of 
opinion,  but  a  sort  of  moral  distaste  for  what  was 
said  ;  it  reminded  her  of  a  dog  shaking  his  coat  to 
get  rid  of  a  splash  of  dirty  water.  She  came  to 
watch  for  it  when  Alexander  Quisante"  was  talking, 
and  to  find  that  it  agreed  wonderfully  well  with  the 
invisible  movements  of  her  own  mind  ;  it  came  when 
the  man  was  petty,  or  facetious  on  untimely  occa- 
sions, or  when  he  betrayed  blindness  to  the  finer 
shades  of  right  and  wrong.  But  for  all  this  the 
Dean  did  not  give  up  Quisant£ ;  for  all  this  he  and 
Dick  Benyon  clung  to  their  scheme  and  to  the  man 
who  was  to  carry  it  out.  In  her  urgent  desire  for 
guidance  she  took  the  Dean  for  a  walk  and  tried  to 
draw  out  his  innermost  opinions.  He  showed  some 
surprise  at  her  interest. 

"  He's  the  last  man  I  should  have  thought  you'd 
care  to  know  about,  Lady  May,"  he  said. 


74  QUISANT£. 

"  That  can  be  only  because  you  think  me  stupid," 
she  retorted,  smiling. 

"  No  !  But  I  thought  you'd  be  stopped  in  limine 
— on  the  threshold,  you  know." 

"  I  see  the  threshold ;  and,  yes,  I  don't  like  it. 
But  tell  me  about  the  house  too." 

"  I've  not  seen  it  all,"  smiled  the  Dean.  "  Well, 
to  drop  our  metaphor,  I  think  Mr.  Quisant£  has  a 
wonderfully  acute  intellect." 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes." 

"  And  hardly  a  wonderfully,  but  a  rather  notice- 
ably, blunt  conscience.  Many  men  have,  you'll  say, 
I  know.  But  most  of  the  men  we  meet  have  sub- 
stitutes." 

"  Substitutes  for  conscience  ? "  May  laughed 
reprovingly  at  her  companion. 

"  Taste,  tradition,  the  rules  of  society,  what  young 
men  call  '  good  form. ' ' 

"  Ah,  yes.     And  he  hasn't  ?  " 

"  His  bringing  up  hasn't  given  them  to  him.  He 
might  learn  them." 

"Who  from?" 

"  One  would  have  hoped  from  our  host,  but  I  see 
no  signs  of  it."  The  Dean  paused,  shaking  his  head. 
"A  woman  might  teach  him."  He  paused  again 
before  adding  with  emphasis,  "But  I  should  be  very 
sorry  for  her." 

"  Why  ?  "  The  brief  question  was  asked  with 
averted  eyes. 

"  Because  the  only  woman  who  could  do  it  must 
be  the  sort  of  woman  who- — whose  teeth  would  be 


WHIMSY-WHAMSIES.  75 

set  on  edge  by  him  every  day  till  the  process — the 
quite  uncertain  process — was  complete." 

"  Yes,  she'd  have  to  be  that,"  murmured  May 
Gaston. 

"  On  the  whole  I  think  she'd  have  an  unhappy  life, 
and  very  likely  fail.  But  I  also  think  that  it  would 
be  the  only  way."  His  round  face  broke  again  into 
its  cheerful  smile.  "  We  shall  have  to  make  the 
best  of  him  as  he  is,  Lady  May,"  he  ended.  "  Heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  encourage  any  woman  to  the 
task  ! " 

"  1  certainly  don't  think  you  seem  likely  to,"  she 
said  with  a  laugh.  "  It  seems  to  come  to  this  :  his 
manners  are  bad  and  his  morals  are  worse." 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"  But,  as  Dick  Benyon  would  say,  so  were  Napo- 
leon's." 

"  Exactly,  and,  as  we  know,  Napoleon's  wife  was 
not  to  be  envied." 

May  Gaston  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  then  she 
said  meditatively,  "  Oh,  don't  you  think  so  ?  ",  and 
fell  again  into  a  long  silence.  The  Dean  did  not 
break  it ;  his  thoughts  had  wandered  from  the  hypo- 
thetical lady  who  was  to  redeem  Quisante"  to  the 
realities  of  the  great  Crusade. 

There  seemed  to  May  something  a  little  inhuman 
in  the  Dean's  attitude,  and  indeed  in  the  way  in 
which  everybody  at  Ashwood  regarded  Quisant6. 
Not  even  Dick  Benyon  was  altogether  free  from 
this  reproach,  in  spite  of  his  enthusiasm  and  his 
resulting  blindness  to  Quisante"'s  lesser,  but  not  less 


76  QUISANTE. 

^galling,  faults.  Not  even  to  Dick  was  he  a  real 
friend  ;  none  of  them  took  him  or  offered  to  take 
him  into  their  inner  lives,  or  allowed  him  to  share 
their  deepest  sympathies.  Perhaps  this  was  only 
to  treat  him  as  he  deserved  to  be  treated ;  if  he 
asked  nothing  but  a  mutual  usefulness  and  accommo- 
dation, that  they  should  use  him  and  he  should  rise 
by  serving  them,  neither  party  was  deceived  and 
neither  had  any  cause  to  complain.  But  if  after  all 
the  man  was  like  most  men,  if  his  chilly  childhood 
and  his  lonely  youth  had  left  him  with  any  desire 
for  unreserved  companionship,  for  true  friendship, 
or  for  love,  then  to  acquiesce  in  his  bad  man- 
ners and  his  worse  morals,  to  be  content  (as  the 
Dean  said)  to  make  the  best  of  him — out  of  him 
would  have  been  a  more  sincere  form  of  expres. 
sion — as  he  was,  seemed  in  some  sort  cruelty  ;  it 
was  like  growing  rich  out  of  the  skill  of  your  crafts- 
men and  yet  taking  no  interest  in  their  happiness  or 
welfare.  It  was  to  use  him  only  as  a  means,  and  to 
be  content  in  turn  to  be  to  him  only  a  means ; 
such  a  relative  position  excluded  true  human  inter- 
course, and,  it  appeared  to  May,  must  intensify  the 
faults  from  which  it  arose.  Even  here,  in  this  house, 
Quisant£  was  almost  a  stranger ;  the  rest  were  easy 
with  one  another,  their  presence  was  natural  and 
came  of  itself ;  he  alone  was  there  for  a  purpose, 
came  from  outside,  and  required  to  be  accounted 
for.  If  the  talk  with  the  Dean  confirmed  appre- 
hensions already  existing,  on  the  other  hand  it 
raised  a  new  force  of  sympathy  and  a  fresh  impulse 


WHIMSY-WHAMSIES.  77 

to  kindness.  But  the  sympathy  and  the  appre- 
hensions could  make  no  treaty ;  fierce  war  waged 
between  them. 

That  night  the  turn  of  events  served  Quisant£. 
He  seemed  ill  and  tired,  yet  he  had  flashes  of  bril- 
liancy. Again  it  was  made  plain  that,  all  said  and 
done,  his  was  the  master  mind  there  ;  even  Lady 
Richard  had  to  listen  and  Fred  Wentworth  to  won- 
der unwillingly  where  the  fellow  got  his  notions. 
After  dinner  he  talked  to  them,  and  they  gave  him 
all  their  ears  until  he  chose  to  cease  and  sank  back 
wearied  in  his  chair.  But  then  came  the  contrast. 
The  Dean  went  to  the  library,  Lady  Richard 
strolled  out  of  doors  with  Fred,  Mrs.  Baxter  with- 
drew into  seclusion  with  a  novel  and  a  petticoat, 
Dick  Benyon  asked  May  to  walk  in  the  garden  with 
him,  and  when  she  refused  went  off  to  play  bil- 
liards with  Morewood.  May  had  pleaded  letters  to 
write  and  sat  down  to  the  task.  The  man  who  a 
little  while  ago  had  been  the  centre  of  attention  was 
left  alone.  He  wandered  about  idly  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, then  dropped  into  a  chair,  seeming  too  tired 
to  read,  looking  fretful,  listless,  solitary  and  sad. 
She  watched  him  furtively  for  some  time  from  be- 
hind the  tall  sides  of  the  old-fashioned  escritoire  ;  he 
sat  very  still,  stretched  out,  frowning,  pale.  Sud- 
denly she  rose  and  crossed  the  room. 

"  It's  too  much  trouble  to  write  letters,"  she  said. 
"  Are  you  inclined  for  a  stroll,  Mr.  Quisante  ?" 

He  sprang  up,  a  sudden  gleam  darting  into  his 
eyes.  She  was  afraid  he  would  make  some  ornate 


78  QUISANT£. 

speech,  but  perhaps  he  was  startled  into  simplicity, 
perhaps  only  at  a  loss  ;  he  stammered  out  no  more 
than  "Thanks,  very  much,"  and  followed  her 
through  the  doorway  on  to  the  gravel-walk.  For  a 
little  while  she  did  not  speak,  then  she  said, 

"  It's  good  of  you  to  be  friends  with  me  again. 
I  was  very  impertinent  that  night  after  your  speech. 
I  don't  know  what  made  me  do  it." 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  turned  to  find  his 
eyes  fixed  intently  on  her  face. 

"We  are  friends  again,  aren't  we?"  she  asked 
rather  nervously;  she  knew  that  she  risked  a  re- 
newal of  the  flirtation,  and  if  it  were  again  what  it 
had  been  her  friendship  could  scarcely  survive  the 
trial.  "  I  shouldn't  have  said  it,"  she  went  on,  "  if 
I  hadn't — I  mean,  if  your  speech  hadn't  seemed  so 
great  to  me.  But  you  forgive  me,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  Lady  May.  I  know  pretty  well  what 
you  think  of  me."  His  lips  shut  obstinately  for 
a  moment.  "  But  I  shall  go  my  way  and  do  my 
work  all  the  same — good  manners  or  bad,  you 
know." 

"  Those  are  very  bad  ones,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
laugh.  Then  she  grew  grave  and  went  on  implor- 
ingly, "  Don't  take  it  like  that.  You  talk  as  if  we — I 
don't  mean  myself,  I  mean  all  of  us — were  enemies, 
people  you  had  to  fight  and  beat.  Don't  think  of  us 
like  that.  We  want  to  be  your  friends,  indeed  we  do." 

"  For  whom  are  you  speaking  ? "  he  asked  in  a 
low  hard  voice. 

She  glanced  at  him.   Had  he  divined  the  thought 


WHIMSY-WHAMSIES.  79 

which  the  Dean's  talk  had  put  into  her  head  ?  Did 
he  feel  himself  a  mere  tool,  always  an  outsider,  in 
the  end  friendless?  If  he  discerned  this  truth,  no 
words  of  hers  could  throw  his  keen-scented  mind  off 
the  track.  She  fell  back  on  simple  honesty,  on  the 
strength  of  a  personal  assurance  and  a  personal 
appeal. 

•4<  At  any  rate  I  speak  for  myself,"  she  said.  "  I 
can  answer  for  myself.  I  want  to  be  friends." 

"  In  spite  of  my  manners  ?  "  He  was  bitter  and 
defiant  still. 

"  They  grow  worse  every  minute ;  and  your 
morals  are  no  better,  I'm  told." 

"  I  daresay  not,"  said  Quisante"  with  a  short  laugh. 

"  Oh,  say  you  won't  be  friends,  if  you  don't  want 
to !  Be  simple.  There,  I  say  it  again.  Be  simple." 

Lady  Richard's  merry  laugh  rang  through  the 
garden,  and  a  brusque  "  Damn  it  I"  of  Morewood's 
floated  out  from  the  open  window  of  the  billiard- 
room.  There  was  an  odd  contrast  to  this  cheerful 
levity  in  the  man's  pale  drawn  face  as  he  looked 
into  May  Gaston's  eyes. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  what  you  say  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Or  are  you  only  trying  to  be  kind,  to  put  me  at 
my  ease  ?  " 

"  It's  nobody's  fault  but  your  own  that  you're 
not  always  at  your  ease,"  she  replied.  The  rest 
she  let  pass;  when  she  asked  him  to  walk  with  her 
she  had  only  been  trying  to  be  kind,  and  she  had 
been  fearful  of  what  her  kindness  might  entail  on 
her.  But  things  went  well ;  he  was  not  flirting  and 


so  QUISANTE". 

he  was  not  acting ;  his  manners,  if  still  bad,  were 
just  now  at  least  not  borrowed,  they  were  home- 
grown. 

"  I  am  at  my  ease,"  he  told  her.  "  At  least,  I 

was  till "  He  hesitated,  and  then  went  on  slowly, 

"  Don't  you  suppose  I've  been  thinking  about 
what  you  said  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not ;  it  wasn't  worth  it." 

"  It  was.  But  how  can  I  change  ?  "  His  voice 
had  a  touch  of  despair  as  well  as  of  defiance.  "  I 
don't  see  what  you  mean  ;  I  don't  feel  what  you 
mean.  Yes,  and  you  talk  of  morals  too.  Well, 
don't  I  know  that  every  now  and  then  I — I  don't 
see  those  either?  "  He  paused.  "  A  man  must  get 
on  as  well  as  he  can  with  what  he's  got,''  he 
resumed.  "  If  he's  only  got  one  eye,  he  must 
learn  to  be  sharper  than  other  men  in  looking 
round." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  way.  His 
pride  and  his  recognition  of  his  defects,  his  defiance 
and  his  pleading  for  himself,  combined  to  touch  her 
heart,  and  she  could  not  at  the  moment  speak  to 
him  more  about  them.  And  to  find  all  that  so  near 
the  surface,  so  eager  for  utterance,  ready  to  break 
out  at  the  least  encouragement,  at  the  first  sign  of 
sympathy  !  For  it  had  not  come  home  to  her  yet 
that  another  might  have  spoken  to  him  as  she  had, 
but  found  no  response  and  opened  the  gates  to  no 
confidence;  she  had  not  guessed  what  Aunt  Maria 
had  about  the  Empress  among  women. 

"  You're  ill  too,"  she  said. 


WHIMSY-WHAMSIES.  81 

"  No,  not  for  me,"  he  answered.  "  I'm  pretty 
well  for  me." 

"  Are  you  never  really  well  ?  " 

"  My  body's  not  much  better  than  the  other 
things.  But  I  must  use  that  too,  as  long  as  it'll 
last."  There  was  no  appeal  for  pity  in  his  voice ; 
defiance  was  still  uppermost.  May  felt  that  she 
must  not  let  him  see  that  she  pitied  him.  either 
for  his  bad  body,  or  his  bad  manners,  or  his  bad 
morals,  or  his  want  of  friends.  He  thought  he  had 
as  much  to  give  as  to  receive.  She  smiled  for  a  mo- 
ment. But  swift  came  the  question — Was  he  wrong  ? 
But  whether  he  were  in  fact  right  or  wrong,  it  was 
harder  to  deal  with  him  on  the  basis  of  this  equality 
than  to  stoop  to  him  in  the  mere  friendliness  of 
compassion.  The  compassion  touched  him  only, 
to  accept  the  equality  was  to  make  admissions  about 
herself. 

He  was  very  silent  and  quiet ;  this  might  be  due 
to  illness  or  fatigue.  But  he  was  also  curiously  free 
from  tricks,  simple,  not  exhibiting  himself.  These 
were  the  signs  of  one  of  his  moments ;  but  what 
brought  about  a  moment  now  ?  A  moment  needed 
a  great  subject,  a  spur  to  his  imagination,  an 
appeal  to  his  deep  emotions,  a  theme,  an  ideal. 
The  moments  had  not  seemed  to  May  things  that 
would  enter  into  or  have  any  concern  with  private 
life  and  intimate  talks ;  they  belonged  to  Dick  Ben- 
yon's  dark  horse,  not  to  the  mere  man  Alexander 
Quisant6.  Or  had  she  a  little  misunderstood  the 
mere  man  ?  The  thought  crossed  her  mind  that, 
6 


82  QUISANT£. 

even  if  she  adopted  this  conclusion  and  contrived 
to  come  to  a  better  understanding  of  him,  it  would 
be  impossible  to  make  the  rest  of  the  world,  of  the 
world  in  which  she  lived  and  to  which  she  clung, 
see  anything  of  what  she  saw.  They  would  laugh 
if  her  new  position  were  a  passing  whim  ;  they  would 
be  scornful  and  angry  if  it  were  anything  more. 

Suddenly  Quisant6  spoke.  What  he  said  was  not 
free  from  consciousness  of  self,  from  that  perpetual 
presence  of  self  to  self  which  is  common  enough 
in  men  of  great  ability  and  ambition,  and  yet  never 
ceases  to  be  a  flaw ;  but  he  said  it  soberly  enough  ; 
there  were  no  flourishes. 

"You  can't  be  half-friends  with  me,"  he  said.  "  I 
must  be  taken  as  I  am,  good  and  bad.  You  must 
let  me  alone,  or  take  me  for  better  for  worse." 

May  smiled  at  the  phrase  he  had  happened  on 
and  its  familiar  associations — surely  so  out  of  place 
here.  But  she  followed  his  meaning  and  appre- 
ciated his  seriousness.  She  could  answer  him  neither 
by  an  only  half-sincere  assurance  that  she  was  ready 
to  be  entire  friends,  nor  yet  by  a  joking  evasion  of  his 
point. 

"  Yes,  I  see :  I  expect  that  is  so,"  she  said  in  a 
troubled  voice ;  it  was  so  very  hard  to  take  him  for 
worse,  and  it  was  rather  hard  to  resolve  to  make  no 
effort  at  taking  him  for  better.  She  forced  a  laugh, 
as  she  said,  "  I'll  think  about  it,  Mr.  QuisanteV' 

As  she  spoke,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his ;  a  low, 
hardly  audible  exclamation  escaped  her  lips  before 
she  was  conscious  of  it.  If  ever  a  man  spoke  plainly 


WHIMSY-WHAMSIES.  83 

without  words  what  was  in  his  soul,  Quisant£  spoke 
it  then.  She  could  not  miss  the  meaning  of  his 
eyes ;  all  unprepared  as  she  was,  it  came  home  to 
her  in  a  minute  with  a  shock  of  wonder  that  forbade 
either  pain  or  pleasure  and  seemed  to  leave  her 
numb.  Now  she  saw  how  truly  she,  no  less  than 
the  others,  had  treated  him  as  an  outsider,  as  a  tool, 
as  something  to  be  used,  not  as  one  of  their  own 
world.  For  she  had  never  thought  of  his  falling  in 
love  with  her,  and  had  never  considered  him  in  that 
point  of  view  at  all.  Yet  he  had,  and  here  lay  the 
reason  why  he  flirted  no  more,  and  why  he  would 
have  her  sympathy  only  on  even  terms.  Here  also, 
it  seemed,  was  the  reason  why  his  tricks  were  for- 
gotten, why  he  was  simple  and  direct ;  here  was  the 
incitement  to  imagination,  the  ideal,  the  passion 
that  had  power  to  fire  and  purge  his  soul. 

"We  must   go  in,"  she  whispered  in  a  shaking 
voice.     "  We  must  go  in,  Mr.  Quisante." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ON    DUTY    HILL. 

ANOTHER  week  had  gone  by,  and,  although  noth- 
ing very  palpable  had  happened,  there  was  a  sort  of 
vague  scare  in  the  house-party.  It  touched  every- 
body, affecting  them  in  different  ways  according  to 
their  characters,  but  raising  in  all  an  indignant  pro- 
test against  a  fact  hardly  credible  and  a  danger 
scarcely  to  be  named.  Not  even  Mrs.  Baxter,  en- 
trenched in  placidity  and  petticoats,  quite  escaped 
its  influence  ;  even  Morewood's  cynical  humour  hesi- 
tated to  play  on  a  situation  so  unexpected,  possibly 
so  serious.  Lady  Richard's  alarm  was  the  most  out- 
spoken, and  her  dismay  the  most  clamorous ;  yet  per- 
haps in  Dick  Benyon  himself  was  the  strongest  fear. 
For  if  that  did  happen  which  seemed  to  be  happen- 
ing beneath  the  incredulous  gaze  of  their  eyes,  who 
but  he  was  responsible,  to  whose  account  save  his 
could  the  result  be  laid  ?  He  had  brought  the  man 
into  the  circle,  into  the  house,  into  the  knowledge 
of  his  friends;  but  for  him  Quisante  might  have 
been  carving  a  career  far  away,  or  have  given  up 
any  idea  of  one  at  all. 

More  than  this,  Dick,  seeking  approval  and  sym- 
pathy, had  looked  round  for  open  and  intelligent 
souls  who  would  share  his  interest,  his  hopes,  and 
84 


ON  DUTY  HILL.  85 

his  enthusiasm,  and  on  no  soul  had  he  spent  more 
pains  or  built  higher  anticipations  than  May  Gas- 
ton's.  She  was  to  sympathise,  to  share  the  hopes 
and  to  understand  the  enthusiasm.  Had  he  not 
asked  her  to  dinner,  had  he  not  brought  her  to  the 
Imperial  League  banquet,  had  he  not  incited  Lady 
Richard  to  have  her  at  Ashwood  ?  And  now  she 
spread  this  scare  through  the  house  ;  she  outran  the 
limits — all  the  reasonable  limits — of  interest,  she  did 
far  more  than  ever  he  had  asked  of  her,  she  cast 
reflections  on  his  judgment  by  pushing  it  to  ex- 
tremes whither  it  had  never  been  meant  to  stretch. 
She  had  been  bidden  to  watch  Alexander  Quisant6, 
to  admire  his  great  moments,  to  see  a  future  for 
him,  and  to  applaud  the  discerning  eye  which  had 
seen  that  future  first.  But  who  had  bidden  her 
make  a  friend  of  the  man,  take  him  into  the  inner 
circle,  treat  him  as  one  who  belonged  to  the  group 
of  her  intimates,  to  the  company  of  her  equals  and 
of  those  with  whom  she  had  grown  up  ?  Almost 
passionately  Dick  disclaimed  the  responsibility  for 
this  ;  with  no  less  heat  his  wife  forced  it  on  him  ; 
relentlessly  the  course  of  events  seemed  to  charge 
him  with  it. 

What  would  happen  he  did  not  know  ;  none  of 
them  at  Ashwood  professed  to  know  ;  they  refused 
to  forecast  the  worst.  But  what  had  actually  hap- 
pened was  that  Quisant6  was  undoubtedly  in  love 
with  May  Gaston,  and  that  May  Gaston  was  no  less 
certainly  wrapped  up  in  Quisante\  The  difference 
of  terms  was  fondly  clung  to  ;  and  indeed  she  showed 


86  QUISANT£. 

no  signs  of  love  as  love  is  generally  understood  ;  she 
displayed  only  an  open  preference  for  his  society 
and  an  engrossed  interest  in  him.  It  was  bad 
enough  ;  who  could  tell  when  it  might  become  worse  ? 
"  I  will  buy  with  you,  sell  with  you,  talk  with  you, 
walk  with  you,  and  so  following;  but  I  will  not  eat 
with  you,  drink  with  you,  nor  pray  with  you." 
Allowing  for  difference  of  times  and  customs,  that 
had  been  the  attitude  of  all  towards  Quisant6 ;  a 
caste-feeling,  almost  a  race-feeling,  dictated  it  and 
kept  it  alive  and  strong  under  all  superficial  alliance 
and  outward  friendliness.  But  May  had  seen  the 
barrier  only  to  throw  it  down  in  a  passion  of  scorn 
for  its  narrowness  and  an  impulse  of  indignation  at 
its  cruelty.  If  she  had  gone  so  far,  he  was  bold 
who  dared  to  say  that  she  would  not  go  farther,  or 
would  set  a  limit  to  her  advance  on  the  path  that 
the  rest  of  them  had  never  trodden. 

"  At  any  rate  it  shan't  happen  here,"  said  Lady 
Richard.  "  I  should  never  be  able  to  look  her 
mother  in  the  face  again." 

"  It  won't  happen  anywhere,"  Dick  protested. 
"  But  you  can't  turn  him  out,  you  know." 

"  I  can't  unless  I  absolutely  literally  do.  He 
won't  see  that  he  isn't  wanted." 

"  No  ;  and  he  may  be  excused  if  he  thinks  he  is — 
by  May  Gaston  at  all  events." 

The  subject  was  one  to  be  discussed  between 
husbands  and  wives,  Dick  and  Lady  Richard,  Mrs. 
Baxter  and  the  Dean,  rather  than  in  any  more  pub- 
lic fashion,  but  the  unexpressed  thought  pervaded 


ON  DUTY  HILL.  87 

every  conversation,  and  was  strongest  when  the 
presence  of  the  persons  concerned  forbade  even 
indirect  reference.  Once  or  twice  Morewood  broke 
into  open  comment  to  Lady  Richard ;  he  puzzled 
her  rather,  and  did  not  console  her  at  all. 

"  I  know  why  you  object  and  how  silly  your 
grounds  are,"  he  said.  "  It's  snobbery  in  you,  you 
know.  Now  in  me  it's  good  sound  sense.  Because 
in  the  first  place,  if  I  were  ten  years  younger,  and 
ten  times  richer,  and  rather  more  of  a  man,  I  should 
like  to  marry  her  myself ;  and  in  the  second  place 
I'm  not  sure  Quisant£  hasn't  forged,  or  isn't  about 
to  forge,  a  cheque  for  a  million." 

"  Don't  talk  about  it,"  shuddered  little  Lady 
Richard.  "  She  can't  care  for  him,  she  can't,  you 
know." 

"  Certainly  not,  in  the  sentimental  sense  that  you 
women  attach  to  that  very  weak  form  of  expression." 

"  And  I'm  sure  there's  nothing  else  to  tempt 
her." 

"  You'll  be  laying  down  what  does  and  doesn't 
tempt  me  next." 

"  I've  known  her  since  she  was  a  child." 

"  There's  nothing  that  produces  so  many  false 
judgments  of  people." 

Lady  Richard  was  far  too  prostrate  to  accept  any 
challenge. 

"You  do  hate  it  as  much  as  I  do,  don't  you?" 
she  implored. 

"  Quite,"  said  he  with  restrained  intensity.  "  But 
if  you  ask  me,  I  think  she'll  do  it." 


88  QUISANT£. 

A  pause  followed.  "  Fred  Wentworth  must  have 
been  waiting  ever  so  long  for  me,"  Lady  Richard 
murmured  apologetically,  though  an  apology  to 
Morewood  could  not  soothe  Fred.  Her  thoughts 
were  busy,  and  a  resolve  was  forming  in  her  mind. 
"  I  shall  ask  Mrs.  Baxter  to  speak  to  her,"  she  an- 
nounced at  last. 

"  That'll  be  amusing  if  it's  nothing  else.  I  should 
like  to  be  there." 

Mrs.  Baxter  was  by  no  means  unwilling  to  help. 
She  was  mother  to  a  large  family  and  had  seen  all 
her  children  creditably  married  ;  such  matters  lay 
well  within  the  sphere  of  legitimate  feminine  activity 
as  she  conceived  it.  Of  course  the  Dean  told  her 
she  had  better  leave  the  thing  alone,  but  it  was 
evident  that  this  was  no  more  than  a  disclaimer  of 
responsibility  in  case  her  efforts  did  more  harm  than 
good. 

Mrs.  Baxter  advanced  on  approved  and  traditional 
lines.  She  slid  into  the  special  topic  from  a  gen- 
eral survey  of  matrimonial  desirability ;  May  did 
not  shy,  but  seemed  ready  to  listen.  Mrs.  Baxter 
ignored  the  possibility  of  any  serious  purpose  on 
May's  side  and  pointed  out  with  motherly  gentle- 
ness that  her  impulsive  interest  in  Quisante  might 
possibly  be  misunderstood  by  him  and  give  rise  to 
an  idea  absolutely  remote  from  any  which  it  was 
May's  intention  to  arouse.  Then  she  would  give 
pain  ;  wouldn't  it  be  better  gradually,  not  roughly 
or  rudely  but  by  slow  degrees,  to  diminish  the  time 
she  spent  with  Quisant6  and  the  attention  she 


ON  DUTY  HILL.  89 

bestowed  on  him  ?  Mrs.  Baxter's  remonstrance,  if 
somewhat  conventional,  yet  was  artistic  in  its  way. 

But  May  Gaston  laughed  ;  it  was  all  very  familiar, 
sounded  very  old,  and  was  ludicrously  wide  of  the 
mark.  She  had  not  been  careless,  she  had  not  suf- 
fered from  the  dangerous  stupidity  of  ultra-maidenly 
blindness,  she  knew  quite  well  how  Quisante1  felt. 
Accordingly  she  would  not  acquiesce  in  Mrs. 
Baxter's  diplomatic  ignoring  of  the  only  material 
point — how  she  felt  herself.  Of  course  if  all  Mrs. 
Baxter  meant  to  convey 'was  her  own  disapproval  of 
the  idea, — well,  she  conveyed  so  much.  But  then 
nobody  needed  to  be  told  of  that ;  it  was  quite  ob- 
vious and  it  was  not  important ;  it  was  an  insigni- 
ficant atom  in  the  great  inevitable  mass  of  disap- 
proval which  any  marked  liking  for  Quisante"  (May 
shrank  from  even  thinking  of  stronger  terms)  must 
arouse.  She  had  far  too  much  understanding  of  the 
disapproval  and  far  too  much  sympathy  with  it  to 
underrate  the  probable  extent  and  depth  of  it;  to  a 
half  of  herself  she  was  with  it,  heart  and  soul ;  to  a 
half  of  herself  the  impulse  that  drove  her  towards 
Quisante  was  something  hardly  rational  and  wholly 
repulsive.  What  purpose,  then,  did  Mrs.  Baxter's 
traditional  motherliness  serve? 

There  was  one  person  with  whom  she  wished  to 
talk,  who  might,  she  thought,  help  her  to  under- 
stand  herself  and  thus  to  guide  her  steps.  For 
every  day  it  became  more  and  more  obvious  that 
the  matter  would  have  to  be  faced  and  ended  one 
way  or  the  other.  Quisante"  was  not  patient,  and 


90  QUISANTfi. 

he  would  not  be  dealt  with  by  way  of  favour.  And 
she  herself  was  in  a  turmoil  and  a  contradiction  of 
feeling  which  she  summed  up  antithetically  by 
declaring  that  she  disliked  him  more  every  hour  he 
was  there  and  missed  him  more  every  hour  he 
was  not ;  or,  to  adopt  the  Dean's  metaphor,  his 
presence  set  her  teeth  on  edge  and  his  absence 
made  her  feel  as  if  she  had  nothing  to  eat.  More- 
wood  might  help  her;  he  would  at  least  understand 
something  of  how  she  felt,  if  she  could  summon  up 
courage  to  talk  to  him  ;  they  were  old  friends. 

One  afternoon  Quisant£  had  been  sitting  with 
them  on  the  lawn  and,  going  off  to  walk  with  Dick, 
left  them  alone  together.  Quisant£  had  not  been  in 
a  happy  vein  ;  he  had  been  trying  to  be  light  and 
flippant,  and  gossiping  about  people  ;  here,  where 
good  taste  makes  the  whole  difference  between  what 
is  acceptable  and  what  is  odious,  was  not  the  field 
for  him.  Morewood  had  growled  and  May  had 
flinched  several  times.  She  sat  looking  after  Qui- 
sant£  with  troubled  puzzled  eyes. 

"  How  funnily  people  are  mixed  !  "  she  murmured, 
more  to  herself  than  her  companion.  Then  she 
turned  to  him  and  said  with  a  laugh,  "  How  you 
hate  him,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  By  all  the  nature  of  things  you  ought  to  hate 
him  much  more." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed.  "But  do  you  think  that's 
the  only  way  to  look  at  people,  any  more  than  it  is 
at  books  ?  You  like  or  dislike  a  novel,  perhaps ; 
but  you  don't  like  or  dislike — oh,  what  shall  I  say  ? 


ON  DUTY  HILL.  91 

Gibbon's  Roman  Empire.  There  you  admire  or 
don't  admire ;  or  rather  you  study  or  neglect ;  be- 
cause, if  you  study,  you  must  admire.  Don't  think 
me  learned ;  it's  only  an  illustration." 

"  Gibbon's  a  duty,"  said  Morewood,  "  but  I'm  not 
clear  that  Alexander  Quisante  is." 

"  Oh,  no ;  exactly  the  opposite  ;  for  me  at  least." 

"  Is  he  then  a  curriculum  ?  " 

"  He's  partly  a  curriculum,  and  partly — I  don't 
know — a  taste  for  strong  drink  perhaps."  She 
laughed  reluctantly,  adding,  "  I'm  being  absurd,  I 
know." 

"  In  talk  or  in  conduct  ?  " 

"  Both,  Mr.  Morewood.  I  can  only  see  him  in 
metaphors.  I  once  thought  of  him  as  a  mountain 
range;  that's  fine-sounding  and  dignified,  isn't  it? 
But  now  I'm  humbler  in  my  fancies  ;  I  think  of  him 
as  a  forest — as  the  bush,  you  know,  full  of  wretched 
underwood  that  you  keep  tumbling  over,  but  with 
splendid  trees  (I  don't  know  whether  there  are  in 
the  bush,  really)  and  every  now  and  then  a  beauti- 
ful open  space  or  a  stately  vista." 

"  From  all  this  riot  of  your  fancy,"  said  More- 
wood  grimly,  "  one  only  thing  emerges  quite 
plainly." 

"  Does  even  one  thing?" 

"  Yes.  That  you  think  about  Quisant6  a  mighty 
lot." 

"  Oh,  yes.  Of  course  I  do,  a  mighty  lot,"  she 
admitted,  laughing.  "  But  you  aren't  very  much 
more  useful  than  Mrs.  Baxter,  who  told  me  that  my 


92  QUISANT£. 

innocent  heedlessness  might  give  Mr.  Quisante"  pain. 
I  oughtn't  to  have  told  you  that,  but  it  was  rather 
funny.  I'm  sure  she's  said  it  to  all  the  Baxter  girls 
in  turn,  and  about  all  the  girls  that  all  the  Baxter 
boys  were  ever  in  love  with." 

"  Possibly  Mrs.  Baxter  only  perceives  the  wretched 
underwood." 

"  Inevitably,"  said  May. 

"  For  heaven's  sake  don't  drift  into  thinking  that 
you're  the  only  person  who  can  understand  him. 
Once  think  that  about  anybody  and  you're  his 
slave." 

"  Perhaps  I'm  the  only  person  who  takes  the 
trouble.  I  don't  claim  genius,  only  diligence." 

"Well,  you're  very  diligent,"  Morewood  grunted. 

She  sat  looking  straight  in  front  of  her  for  a  few 
moments  in  silence,  while  Morewood  admired  the 
curve  of  her  chin  and  the  moulding  of  her  throat. 

"I  feel,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  and  slo*.vly,  "as 
if  I  must  see  what  becomes  of  him  and  as  if  it  ought 
to  be  seen  at  close  quarters." 

Then  Morewood  spoke  with  deliberate  plainness. 

"  You  know  better  than  I  do  that  he's  not  of 
your  class ;  I  mean  in  himself,  not  merely  where  he 
happens  to  come  from.  And  for  my  part  I'm  not 
sure  that  he's  an  honest  man,  and  I  don't  think  he's 
a  high-minded  one." 

"  Do  you  believe  people  are  bound  to  be  always 
just  what  they  are  now?"  she  asked. 

"  Thinking  you  can  improve  them  is  the  one  thing 
more  dangerous  to  yourself  than  thinking  you've  a 


ON  DUTY  HILL.  93 

special  gift  for  understanding  them.  To  be  quite 
plain,  both  generally  end  in  love-affairs  and,  what's 
more,  unhappy  love-affairs." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  in  love  with  Mr.  Quisante.  You're 
going  back  to  your  narrow  loving-hating  theory." 

"  Hum.  I'm  inclined  to  think  that  nature  shares 
my  narrowness." 

If  May  got  small  comfort  from  this  conversation, 
Morewood  got  less,  and  the  rest  of  the  party,  judg- 
ing from  what  he  let  drop  about  his  impressions  of 
May's  state  of  mind,  none  at  all.  Lady  Richard 
was  of  opinion  that  a  crisis  approached  and  re- 
echoed her  cry,  "Not  here  anyhow!"  But  Qui- 
sante's  demeanour  at  once  confirmed  her  fears  and 
ignored  her  protest.  He  had  many  faults  and 
weaknesses,  but  he  was  not  the  man  to  shrink  from 
a  big  stake  and  a  great  throw.  His  confidence  in 
his  powers  was  the  higher  owing  to  his  blindness  to 
his  defects.  May  Gaston  had  indeed  opened  his 
eyes  to  some  degree,  but  here  again,  as  she  showed 
him  continued  favour,  he  found  good  excuse  for 
dwelling  on  the  interest  which  inspired  rather  than 
on  the  frankness  which  characterised  her  utterance. 
She  had  bidden  him  be  himself ;  then  to  her  that 
was  a  thing  worth  being.  As  he  believed  himself 
able  to  conquer  all  external  obstacles  in  his  path, 
so  he  vaguely  supposed  that  he  could  overcome  and 
obliterate  anything  there  might  be  wrong  in  him- 
self, or  at  any  rate  that  he  could  so  outweigh  it  by 
a  more  prodigal  display  of  his  gifts  as  to  reduce  it 
to  utter  insignificance ;  try  as  he  might  to  see  him- 


94  QUISANT£. 

self  as  she  saw  him,  he  could  not  fully  understand 
the  gravity  of  her  objections.  And  anyhow,  grave 
as  she  thought  them,  she  was  his  friend ;  at  the  cost 
of  defying,  perhaps  of  losing,  her  friends,  she  elected 
to  be  his  friend. 

To  the  appeal  of  this  generosity  his  emotions  re- 
sponded passionately  ;  now  he  worshipped  his 
Empress  among  women  for  more  than  her  grace, 
her  stateliness,  or  her  beauty ;  he  loved  her  for  her 
courage  and  her  loyalty.  There  seemed  nothing 
that  he  would  not  do  for  her ;  it  did  not,  however, 
occur  to  him  that  perhaps  the  one  thing  he  could 
do  for  her  was  to  leave  her.  But  short  of  this 
self-sacrifice — and  to  that  even  he  might  have 
risen  had  anyone  pointed  him  the  way — he  was  in 
just  that  state  of  exalted  feeling  which  made  him 
at  his  best,  cured  him  of  his  tricks  for  the  time 
being,  and  gave  him  the  simplicity  whose  absence 
marred  his  ordinary  hours.  He  always  rose  to  the 
occasion,  Dick  Benyon  maintained ;  and  to  this 
great  occasion  he  came  marvellously  near  to  rising. 
This  is  not  to  say  that  he  was  altogether  in  the 
temper  of  a  hero  of  romance.  He  loved  the  lady, 
but  he  loved  the  victory  too,  the  report  of  it,  the 
tclat,  the  talk  it  would  make. 

The  tendency  of  events  might  seem  to  justify  his 
growing  hopes  and  almost  to  excuse  confidence,  but 
May's  mood,  had  he  seen  it  fully,  would  have  re- 
buked him.  She  hung  doubtful.  She  had  suc- 
ceeded, by  the  help  of  her  far-fetched  metaphors,  in 
describing  to  Morewood  the  nature  of  the  attraction 


ON  DUTY  HILL.  95 

which  Quisant£  exercised  over  her  and  of  the  force 
which  drew  her  on  ;  but  to  Morewood  she  had  said 
nothing  of  the  opposing  influences.  She  had  sent 
no  letter  to  Marchmont,  she  had  not  yet  refused  to 
become  his  wife.  Although  she  recognised  the  un- 
fairness of  this  treatment  of  him  she  could  not  com- 
pel her  hand  to  the  writing  of  the  letter ;  for  March- 
mont came  to  personify  to  her  all  that  she  lost, 
that  at  least  she  risked,  if  she  yielded  to  her  new 
impulse.  Thus  the  hold  which  her  liking  for  him, 
their  old  acquaintance,  and  all  the  obvious  advan- 
tages gave  him  was  further  strengthened.  Leaving 
on  one  side  his  position  and  the  excellence  of  the 
match,  things  which  now  seemed  to  her  less  impor- 
tant, and  coming  to  the  more  intimate  and  personal 
aspect  of  the  matter,  she  realised  with  a  pang  how 
much  Marchmont  pleased  her ;  he  never  offended 
her  taste  or  jarred  on  her  feelings ;  she  would  be 
absolutely  safe  with  him,  he  would  gratify  almost 
every  mood  and  satisfy  almost  every  aspiration. 
Dealing  very  plainly  with  herself,  formulating  the 
question  that  she  could  not  put  to  Morewood,  she 
asked  whether  she  would  not  rather  go  as  a  wife  to 
Marchmont  than  to  any  other  man  she  had  met, 
whether  Quisante  or  another.  She  had  been,  perhaps 
still  was,  more  nearly  in  love  with  Weston  March- 
mont than  with  anybody  else.  But  the  "  almosts  " 
were  obstinate ;  the  nearly  had  never  become  the 
quite ;  she  did  not  tell  herself  that  it  never  could  ; 
on  the  contrary  she  recognised  (though  here  she  was 
inclined  to  shirk  the  probe)  that  if  she  married 


96  QUISANTE". 

another,  she  might  well  awake  to  find  herself  loving 
Marchmont ;  she  knew  that  she  would  not  like 
Marchmont  to  love  another  woman.  So  far  she  car- 
ried her  inquiry  :  then  she  grew  in  a  way  sick  and 
disgusted  with  this  exposure  of  her  inmost  feelings. 
She  would  not  proceed  to  ask  why  precisely  she 
could  not  say  yes  to  Marchmont  without  being  sen- 
sible of  a  loss  greater  than  the  gain.  All  she  knew 
was  that  she  would  not  think  of  becoming  Quisante's 
wife  if  that  were  not  the  only  way  of  getting  all  she 
wanted  from  Quisante\  The  wifehood  she  looked 
on  as  a  means  to  something  else,  to  what  she  could 
hardly  say  ;  in  itself  she  did  not  desire  it. 

Lady  Richard's  prayer  was  answered — no  thanks 
to  herself  or  her  hints,  no  thanks  either  to  Mrs. 
Baxter's  motherly  remonstrance  or  to  Morewood's 
blunt  speech.  It  was  May  herself  who  sent  Qui- 
sant£  away.  A  thrill  of  relief  ran  round  the  table 
when  he  announced  at  dinner  that  if  Lady  Richard 
would  excuse  him  he  would  leave  by  the  early  train. 
Excuse  him !  She  would  have  hired  a  balloon  to 
take  him  if  he  had  declared  a  preference  for  that 
form  of  locomotion.  But  she  expressed  the  proper 
regret  and  the  proper  interest  in  the  reason  (the 
pretext  she  called  it  in  her  own  mind)  for  his  depart- 
ure. It  appeared  that  a  very  large  and  important 
meeting  was  to  be  held  at  Manchester ;  two  Cabinet 
Ministers  were  to  be  there  ;  Quisante"  was  invited  to 
be  the  third  speaker.  He  explained  that  he  felt  it 
would  be  a  mistake  to  refuse  the  invitation,  and  the 
acceptance  of  it  entailed  a  quiet  day  or  two  in  Lon- 


ON  DUTY  HILL.  97 

don  with  his  Blue-books  and  his  papers.  As  he  put 
it,  the  whole  thing  sounded  like  an  excuse;  Lady 
Richard  hoped  that  it  covered  a  retreat  and  that 
the  retreat  was  after  a  decisive  repulse  from  May 
Gaston.  Even  Dick  was  half  inclined  to  share  this 
opinion  ;  for  although  he  knew  how  a  chance  of 
shining  with,  and  perhaps  of  outshining,  such  lumi- 
naries as  were  to  adorn  the  Manchester  platform 
would  appeal  to  his  friend,  he  did  not  think  that  for 
its  sake  Quisante  would  abandon  any  prospect  of 
success  in  his  suit.  In  fact  the  impression  was 
general,  and  the  relief  proportionate.  The  Dean 
beamed  and  Mrs.  Baxter  purred  ;  Morewood  was 
good-natured,  and  Fred  Wentworth  was  lightened  of 
a  burden  of  bewilderment  which  had  pressed  heavily 
on  his  youthful  mind.  Quisantd  was  treated  with 
a  marked  access  of  cordiality,  and  May  was  petted 
like  a  child  who  has  displayed  a  strong  inclination 
to  be  naughty,  but  has  at  last  made  up  its  mind  to 
be  good,  and  thereby  saved  those  responsible  for  its 
moral  welfare  from  the  disagreeable  necessity  of 
showing  displeasure  and  exercising  discipline.  She 
smiled  to  herself  at  the  effusive  affection  with  which 
Lady  Richard  bade  her  good-night. 

For  these  people  did  not  know  the  history,  and 
had  not  been  present  at  the  interview  between  May 
and  Quisante  on  Duty  Hill  when  the  sun  was  sink- 
ing and  the  air  was  still.  They  did  not  know  that 
it  was  by  her  command  that  he  went  and  that  his 
going  rather  strengthened  than  relaxed  the  bond 
there  was  between  them.  Always  there  stood  out  in 
7 


98  QUISANT£. 

her  memory  the  scene  on  the  hill,  how  he  faced  her 
there  and  told  her  that,  great  as  the  chance  was  and 
imperative  as  the  call,  yet  he  would  not  go ;  he 
could  not  leave  her,  he  said,  and  then  and  there 
poured  out  his  love  for  her.  When  he  made  love, 
he  was  not  as  when  he  flirted.  Passion  purged  him  ; 
he  was  strong,  direct,  and  simple  ;  he  was  consumed 
then  by  what  he  felt  and  had  no  time  to  spoil  the 
effect  by  asking  what  impression  he  made  on  others. 
Here  was  the  thing  that  Marchmont  could  not  give 
her,  the  great  moment,  the  thrill,  the  sense  of  a 
power  in  the  man  which  she  had  not  measured, 
might  spend  her  life  in  seeking  to  measure,  and  yet 
never  to  the  end  know  in  its  fulness.  But  she 
answered  not  a  word  to  his  love-making,  she  neither 
accepted  nor  refused  it ;  as  often  as  he  paused  an 
instant  and  again  when  he  came  to  the  end,  she  had 
nothing  to  say  or  would  say  nothing  except,  "  You 
must  go." 

"You're  the  only  person  in  the  world  for  whose 
sake  I  would  hesitate  about  going." 

She  smiled.  "  That's  not  at  all  to  your  credit," 
she  said ;  but  she  was  not  ill  pleased. 

He  came  a  step  nearer  to  her  and  said,  still  soberly, 
still  quietly,  "  I'll  go  away  from  here  to-morrow." 

"Yes,  to  the  meeting,"  she  said,  looking  up  at 
him  brightly  from  her  seat  on  the  wooden  bench  on 
the  hill-top. 

"  Away  from  here,"  he  repeated.  "  But  not  to  the 
meeting  unless  you  send  me."  Then  he  stood  quite 
still  opposite  to  her  for  a  minute.  "  Because  unless 


ON  DUTY  HILL.  99 

you  care  for  me  to  do  it,  I  don't  care  to  do  it,"  he 
went  on. 

A  long  silence  followed  as  she  sat  there,  looking 
past  him  down  into  the  rich  valley  that  spread  from 
the  foot  of  the  hill.  The  fascination  was  strong  on 
her,  the  fear  was  strong  on  her  too  ;  but  for  the 
moment  the  repulsion  was  forgotten.  For  he  had 
risen  to  the  occasion,  as  Dick  Benyon  maintained 
that  he  always  did  ;  not  a  word  too  much,  not  an 
entreaty  too  extravagant,  not  an  epithet  too  florid 
had  found  passage  from  his  lips.  His  instinct  of  the 
way  to  treat  a  great  and  important  situation  had 
saved  him  and  brought  him  triumphantly  through 
all  the  perils.  He  did  not  ignore  what  he  was,  he 
did  not  disguise  his  knowledge  of  his  powers ; 
knowing  what  they  were  and  the  value  of  his  offer- 
ing, he  laid  them  all  at  her  feet  and  asked  in  return 
no  more  than  her  leave  and  her  command  to  use 
them. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  pale  eager  face. 

"  I  send  you  then,"  she  said.  "  And  now  walk 
with  me  down  the  hill  and  tell  me  what  you'll  say 
at  Manchester." 

That  night,  before  she  went  to  bed,  she  wrote  to 
Weston  Marchmont ; 

"  DEAR  FRIEND, — I  will  not  wait  to  see  you 
again.  I  can't  do  what  you  wish.  Everything  else 
I  could  do  for  you,  and  everything  else  that  you 
wish  I  wish  for  you.  But  I  can't  do  that." 

Alas  for  the  renewed  peace   of  Lady  Richard's 


ioo  QUISANT£. 

mind,  alas  for  the  returning  quiet  of  Dick  Benyon's 
conscience  !  Quisante"  made  his  preparations  for 
going  with  his  eyes  all  agleam,  murmuring  again  and 
again, "  She  sends  me  ;  she  shall  see  what  I'm  worth." 
For  one  of  his  great  moments  had  come  in  the  nick 
of  time  and  done  a  work  that  he  himself,  low  as  he 
might  now  and  again  fall,  could  hardly  quite  undo. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ADVICE   FROM  AUNT  MARIA. 

THE  two  Cabinet  Ministers  brought  back  from 
Manchester  different  accounts  of  Quisante's  speech 
and  its  effects.  One  said  it  was  frothy  rhetoric 
heard  in  puzzled  lethargy,  the  other  that  it  was 
genuine  eloquence  received  with  the  hush  of  pro- 
found attention,  but  hailed  at  the  end  with  raptur- 
ous enthusiasm.  This  was  a  typical  case  of  the 
division  of  opinion  which  began  to  prevail  about 
Quisant£,  and  was  not  disposed  of  by  observing  that 
the  unfavourable  Minister  belonged  to  that  "  old 
gang  "  which  it  was  Quisante's  mission  to  shake  up  or 
shake  out.  Rich  in  merits,  his  speeches  were  never- 
theless faulty  to  a  critical  ear ;  the  ornate  was  apt 
to  turn  to  the  gaudy,  the  dignified  to  the  pompous. 
To  the  critical,  defects  outweigh  merits  ;  but  the 
mass  of  people,  not  being  critical,  fix  on  the  fine 
things,  contentedly  and  perhaps  not  unwisely  ignor- 
ing the  blemishes.  So  the  speech  was  a  great  popu- 
lar success,  and  Alexander  Quisante  conceived  that 
he  had  more  than  justified  his  reputation  and  had 
ornamented  his  Lady's  colours  with  the  laurel  of 
victory.  He  wrote  to  her  to  say  that  he  was  stay- 
ing a  few  days  in  Lancashire  and  had  arranged  to 


101 


102  QUISANT£. 

speak  at  one  or  two  other  places.  "  If  I  do  at  all 
well,"  he  wrote,  "  it  is  because  I  forget  my  audience 
and  think  that  I  speak  only  to  you  and  to  earn  the 
praise  of  your  eyes." 

"  Oh,  dear,  why  does  he  talk  like  that  ? "  said 
May  Gaston  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile.  "  Forget  his 
audience  !  The  praise  of  my  eyes  !  "  She  read  the 
compliment  over  again  almost  despairingly.  "  Yet 
he  doesn't  really  think  me  an  idiot,"  she  ended. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  forgive  him  his  habit 
of  playing  to  the  gallery,  but  he  need  not  treat  her 
as  though  she  sat  there.  She  felt  able  to  under- 
stand the  dumb  and  bewildered  reproach  which 
fronted  her  in  her  sister  Fanny's  face,  but  found 
spoken  expression  only  in  the  news  that  Fanny 
had  had  a  letter  from  Lady  Richard. 

The  next  day  she  went  to  see  Miss  Quisante  ;  the 
paying  of  this  visit  had  been  in  her  mind  from  the 
first  moment  she  left  Ashwood.  In  the  little  flat's 
narrow  passage  she  had  to  squeeze  by  a  short, 
stout,  dark  man,  dressed  with  much  elaboration  ; 
Miss  Quisante  explained  afterwards  that  he  was  a 
sort  of  cousin  of  her  own  and  Sandro's. 

"  His  name  is  Mandeville,"  she  said.  "  His  father's 
was  Isaacs.  You  knew  we  had  Jewish  relations  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  not  improbable." 

"  I  suppose  we've  got  some  of  the  blood,  and 
some  of  it's  a  very  good  thing,"  pursued  Aunt 
Maria.  "This  man's  a  stock-jobber;  he  came  to 
talk  to  me  about  my  money,  but  he  let  out  a  thing 
or  two  about  Sandro." 


ADVICE  FROM  AUNT  MARIA.        103 

11  About  Mr.  Quisant<§  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Well,  I'm  not  surprised;  I  never  am  sur- 
prised at  Sandro.  Only  if  he  speculates  with  my 
money  I  shan't  give  it  him." 

May  listened  and  heard  how  Quisant£  had  em- 
barked the  five  hundred  pounds  given  him  to  sup- 
port his  new  position  in  a  hazardous,  although  not 
unpromising,  speculation.  Whether  he  would  win 
or  lose  was  still  uncertain  ;  Mandeville  had  hopes. 

"  And  I  don't  know  that  it's  exactly  dishonest," 
said  Aunt  Maria  meditatively.  "  But  that's  just 
like  Sandro.  He's  always  doing  things  that  you 
can't  be  quite  sure  about — whether  they're  straight 
or  not,  you  know.  He  was  just  the  same  as  a 
boy." 

May  had  a  sense  of  treachery  in  listening,  but 
how  should  she  not  listen?  Morewood's  opinion 
came  into  her  memory.  Miss  Quisant6  was  con- 
firming it  out  of  her  full  acquaintance  with  its 
subject. 

"  I  gave  him  the  money,  it  was  his  own,  I've  got 
nothing  to  show,"  said  Miss  Quisante"  with  her 
vinegary  little  smile. 

"  Perhaps  he — he  misunderstood  what  you 
meant ;  I  mean,  that  you  intended  the  money  for 
any  special  purpose." 

"  That's  exactly  what  he'll  say,"  remarked  Aunt 
Maria  with  a  triumphant  nod. 

"  But  if  it's  true " 

"  I  shan't  know  whether  it's  true  or  not.  That's 
where  Sandro's  cleverness  comes  in." 


104  QUISANT£. 

It  was  hard  to  realise  that  the  old  lady  t?lked  of 
the  man  whom  her  hearer  had  seen  on  Duty  Hill. 

"  I'm  sure  you  don't  do  him  justice."  The  plea 
sounded  weak  even  to  its  utterer. 

"  To  an  ounce,"  said  Aunt  Maria  emphatically. 
May  laughed.  "  I  lived  with  him  for  twelve  years, 
and  I'm  not  a  fool  any  more  than  he  is.  If  you 
ask  him  about  me,  you'll  get  the  truth,  and  you  get 
it  when  you  ask  me  about  him.  After  twelve  years 
I  ought  to  know." 

"  You've  read  his  speech  ?  "  May  asked.  "  Isn't 
it  magnificent,  parts  of  it  anyhow  ?  " 

"Very  few  men  have  a  brain  like  Sandro's." 

"There  I  agree  with  you,  Miss  Quisante."  But 
May's  face  was  troubled  as  she  added,  a  moment 
later,  "  He  ought  to  give  you  back  your  money, 
though." 

"  He  will,  if  he  makes  a  lot  out  of  it,  and  he'll 
give  me  a  nice  present  too.  Then  he'll  feel  that 
he's  acted  quite  properly  all  through.  And  if  he 
loses  it — well,  as  I  say,  he's  got  his  case,  and  I  can't 
prove  anything." 

"  Men  like  him  are  often  careless  about  money 
affairs.  It's  only  that,  I  expect." 

"  Careless !  Sandro  careless  !  Oh,  dear  me,  no." 
and  for  once  Miss  Quisant£  laughed  heartily.  The 
beads  on  her  cap  shook  as  her  dumpy  little  form 
swayed  gently  with  mirth ;  she  looked  impishly  de- 
lighted at  such  a  misconception  of  her  nephew's 
character.  May  felt  very  foolish,  but  could  not 
help  laughing  herself. 


ADVICE  FROM  AUNT  MARIA.       105 

"  Well,  I  won't  plead  his  cause  any  more,"  she 
said.  "Only  I  believe  you're  prejudiced."  She 
paused,  and  then,  looking  the  old  woman  in  the 
face,  added,  "  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  he  and  I  have 
become  great  friends." 

Miss  Quisante"  had  stopped  laughing ;  now  she 
made  a  gesture  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  she 
washed  her  hands  of  any  responsibility.  But  she 
appeared  fretful  and  disturbed. 

"  I'm  immensely  impressed  by  him  ;  and  I  think 
these  faults  you  talk  so  much  about  are  only  super- 
ficial. They  can't  really  belong  to  his  nature  when 
so  much  that's  fine  does."  Her  voice  shook  a  little 
as  she  implored  a  merciful  judgment  from  the  re- 
lentless old  lady.  Aunt  Mafia's  shrewd  eyes  grew 
softer. 

"  I  used  to  say  that  to  myself  for  ever  so  long," 
she  said.  "  I  catch  myself  saying  it  now  and  then 
even  now." 

"You're  disappointed  at  not — not  getting  on 
better  with  him,  and  it  makes  you  bitter." 

"  And  you  ?    You  get  on  very  well  with  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I'm  blind  about  him.  I  see  what 
you  mean  and  what  a  lot  of  people  feel.  If  there 
is  a  pit,  I've  walked  into  it  open-eyed." 

"  He's  in  love  with  you,  of  course?" 

A  denial  was  hardly  worth  while  and  quite  use- 
less. "  You  must  ask  him  that,  Miss  Quisante1," 
May  replied.  Aunt  Maria  nodded  and  gazed  at  her 
long  and  steadily. 

"Yes,  you're  his   Empress  among  women,"  she 


io6  QUISANTfi. 

said  at  last  with  a  little  sneer.  "  Sandro  has  a 
phrase  for  everything  and  everybody.  And  are  you 
in  love  with  him  ?  " 

May  had  wanted  to  come  to  close  quarters  and 
was  glad  that  Aunt  Maria  gave  her  a  lead.  But 
she  did  not  return  a  direct  answer  to  the  question. 

"  You  wouldn't  be  encouraging,  if  I  were  think- 
ing of  becoming  his  wife." 

"  It  would  be  very  extraordinary  that  you  should." 

"  I've  no  particular  desire  to  be  ordinary,"  said 
May,  smiling. 

Miss  Quisant6  leant  forward  suddenly  and  held 
up  a  short  forefinger. 

"  My  dear,  you'd  be  very  unhappy,"  she  said. 
Then  she  leant  back  again  and  received  in  complete 
stillness  May's  meditative  gaze. 

"  In  a  good  many  ways  perhaps  I  should,"  said 
May  at  last  with  a  sigh,  and  her  brow  puckered 
with  wrinkles.  "  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  she  sighed 
again. 

"  But  I  know  what  it  is.  You've  let  yourself  get 
interested  in  Sandro ;  you've  let  him  lay  hold  of 
you."  May  nodded.  "And  it  would  seem  rather 
dull  now  to  lose  him  ?  "  Again  May  nodded,  laugh- 
ing a  little.  Aunt  Maria  understood  her  feelings 
very  well,  it  seemed.  "  I  should  be  dull  too  if  I 
lost  him."  The  old  lady  folded  her  hands  in  her 
lap.  "  There  is  that  about  Sandro,"  she  said  with 
a  touch  of  pride  in  her  voice.  "  I  don't  like  him  ; 
well,  you've  gathered  that  perhaps ;  but  if  anything 
happened  to  him,  I  should  feel  I  might  as  well  lie 


ADVICE  FROM  AUNT  MARIA.       107 

down  and  die.  Of  course  I've  got  nobody  else  be- 
longing to  me  ;  you're  not  like  that."  Again  the 
forefinger  was  raised  in  admonition,  and  Miss  Qui- 
sant£  gave  a  piece  of  practical  advice.  "  Marry  a 
nice  man  of  your  own  sort,  my  dear,  and  when 
you're  safely  married,  be  as  much  interested  in 
Sandro  as  you  like." 

May  was  not  quite  sure  of  the  morality  of  this 
counsel ;  it  seemed  possible  that  Aunt  Maria  shared 
the  vagueness  about  right  and  wrong  which  she 
quarrelled  with  in  her  nephew.  She  laughed  as  she 
said, 

"  But  then  Mr.  Quisant£  would  marry  some  other 
woman,  and  she  mightn't  like  it.  And  my  nice 
husband  mightn't  like  it." 

It  was  possible  to  discuss  the  matter  far  more 
frankly  with  Miss  Quisant£  than  with  anybody  else, 
yet  the  talk  with  her  was  only  the  first  of  several  in 
which  May  tried  to  glean  what  would  be  thought  of 
such  a  step  as  marrying  Alexander  Quisant6.  Al- 
most everywhere  she  found,  not  only  the  lack  of 
encouragement  which  Aunt  Maria  had  shown,  but 
an  amazement  hardly  distinguishable  from  horror 
and  an  utter  failure  to  understand  her  point  of 
view ;  her  care  to  conceal  any  personal  interest  in 
the  discussions  she  found  means  to  bring  about 
gained  her  very  candid  expressions  of  opinion  about 
Quisant6,  and  she  became  aware  that  her  world  would 
regard  her  as  something  like  a  lunatic  if  it  awoke 
one  morning  to  read  of  her  engagement  to  the  man. 

Yet  side  by  side  with  this  feeling  there  was  a  great 


IDS  QUISANT£. 

and  a  growing  expectancy  with  regard  to  him 
in  his  public  aspect.  He  began  to  be  a  figure, 
somebody  of  whom  account  would  have  to  be  taken ; 
Dick  Benyon's  infatuation  was  less  often  men- 
tioned, his  sagacity  more  often  praised.  May  was 
struck  again  with  the  sharp  line  drawn  between  the 
man  himself  and  what  he  was  to  do,  with  the  way 
in  which  everybody  proposed  to  invite  him  to  his 
house,  but  nobody  contemplated  admitting  him  to 
his  heart.  The  inhumanity  made  her  angry 
again,  but  she  was  alone  in  perceiving  it ;  and  she 
was  half-aware  that  her  perception  of  it  would  be 
far  keener  than  Quisante's  own.  In  fact  it  was 
very  doubtful  if  he  asked  any  more  of  the  world 
than  what  the  world  was  prepared  to  give  him.  But 
that,  said  May,  was  not  because  he  lacked  the 
power  and  the  desire  of  love,  but  because  his  affec- 
tions were  withered  by  neglect  or  rusty  from  dis- 
use. She  knew  well  that  they  were  there  and  would 
expand  under  the  influence  of  sympathy.  If  people 
grew  human  towards  him,  he  would  respond  in  kind  ; 
in  hitting  on  this  idea  she  commended  herself  for  a 
sagacity  in  questions  of  emotion  not  less  than  that 
which  Dick  Benyon  had  shown  in  matters  of  the  intel- 
lect. Dick  had  discovered  Quisant£,  as  he  thought ; 
May  told  herself  that  he  had  discovered  only  half  of 
Quisant£,  and  that  the  other  half  had  been  left  for 
her  to  explore,  and  to  reveal  to  the  world.  The 
effect  of  her  various  conversations  was  rather  to 
confirm  her  in  her  inclination  towards  Quisant£ 
than  to  frighten  her  out  of  it. 


ADVICE  FROM  AUNT  MARIA.        109 

There  was  one  talk  which  she  could  not  escape 
and  had  to  face  with  what  resolution  she  might. 
Weston  Marchmont  was  not  content  with  the  brief 
dismissal  which  had  reached  him  from  Ashwood, 
and  he  was  amazed  beyond  understanding  at  the 
hint  of  its  cause  which  Dick  Benyon  had  given  him. 
He  had  no  doubt  some  reason  to  think  himself  ill- 
used,  but  he  was  not  inclined  to  press  that  side  of 
the  case.  It  was  not  his  own  failure  so  much  as  the 
threatened  success  of  such  a  rival  that  staggered 
and  horrified  him.  Few  are  wide-minded  enough 
to  feel  a  friendship  quite  untouched  and  unimpaired 
when  their  friend  takes  into  equal  intimacy  a  third 
person  for  whom  they  themselves  entertain  aversion 
or  contempt ;  at  the  best  they  see  in  such  conduct 
an  unexpected  failure  of  discernment ;  very  often 
they  detect  in  it  evidence  of  a  startling  coarseness 
of  feeling,  an  insensibility,  and  a  grossness  of  taste 
difficult  to  tolerate  in  one  to  whom  they  have  given 
their  affection.  Marchmont  felt  that,  if  May  Gaston 
wronged  him,  she  was  wronging  far  more  herself, 
and  most  of  all  his  ideal  of  her.  He  could  not  be- 
lieve such  a  thing  of  her  without  her  own  plain 
assurance,  and  would  not  suffer  it  until  every  effort 
to  redeem  and  rescue  her  was  exhausted. 

"  You  don't  mean,"  he  said  at  last  openly  and 
bluntly  to  Dick  Benyon,  "  that  you  think  it's  pos- 
sible she'll  marry  him  ?" 

"  I  do,  quite,"  groaned  poor  Dick.  "  You  can 
imagine  how  I  feel  about  it ;  and  if  I  didn't  see  it 
myself,  Amy  would  soon  let  me  know  it." 


i  io  QUISANT£. 

Marchmont  said  no  more,  feeling  that  discussion 
was  difficult  for  one  in  his  position,  but  Dick  did 
not  spare  him  a  description  of  what  had  happened 
at  Ashwood,  from  which  he  realised  the  gravity  of 
the  danger. 

"  After  all,  he's  a  very  remarkable  man,"  Dick 
pleaded,  in  a  forlorn  effort  at  defending  himself  no 
less  than  the  lady. 

Marchmont  found  May  in  a  mood  most  favourable 
to  the  cause  he  had  at  heart,  if  he  had  known  how 
to  use  his  opportunity  to  the  best  advantage.  From 
day  to  day  now  she  wavered  between  the  fear  and 
the  fascination,  and  on  this  day  the  fear  was 
stronger  and,  working  together  with  her  affection 
for  Marchmont,  might  well  have  gained  him  the 
victory.  Ill-usage  of  Quisante  would  perhaps  have 
been  involved  here,  but  May  v/ould  not  have  stood 
at  that,  had  it  been  made  plain  to  her  heart  that  in 
the  end  the  man  could  not  be  accepted  or  endured. 
To  win,  Marchmont  should  have  made  love  to  her 
in  his  own  way,  refused  to  accept  his  dismissal,  and 
pressed  his  own  suit  on  his  own  merits,  leaving  his 
rival  to  stand  the  contrast  as  he  best  might,  but  not 
dragging  him  explicitly  into  the  issue  between  him- 
self and  May.  He  did  not  take  this  course  ;  to  his 
pride  it  was  difficult  to  plead  passionately  again 
when  his  former  pleading  had  been  rebuffed ;  and 
the  intensity  of  his  desire  to  show  her  the  truth 
about  Quisante,  and  at  all  costs  to  rescue  her  from 
Quisante,  made  him  devote  more  energy  to  de- 
nouncing his  rival  than  to  recommending  himself. 


ADVICE  FROM  AUNT  MARIA.        in 

Thus  he  set  May  to  defend  the  absent  friend  rather 
than  to  pity  and  be  drawn  towards  the  suitor  who 
was  before  her.  Yet  in  spite  of  his  mistaken  tactics, 
he  shook  her  sorely  ;  all  that  was  in  his  favour  came 
home  to  her  with  renewed  force  ;  she  looked  on  him 
with  pleasure  and  heard  his  voice  again  with  delight ; 
it  was  very  pleasant  to  her  to  be  with  him  ;  she  ad- 
mitted to  herself  that  very,  very  easily  she  might  be 
in  love  with  him.  Old  Miss  Quisant£'s  advice  re- 
curred to  her  mind  ;  -was  this  the  nice  husband  who 
would  give  her  a  safety  not  incompatible  with  a 
continued  interest  in  Alexander  Quisant£  ?  She 
smiled  regretfully  ;  Marchmont  did  not  fit  at  all 
into  Aunt  Maria's  scheme. 

"  I  don't  want  to  question  you,"  he  said,  "but  if 
you  will  speak  plainly  to  me  I  shall  be  glad.  The 
change  came  at  Ashwood  ?  " 

"  There's  been  no  change  ;  there's  been  a  failure 
to  change.  When  I  saw  you  last,  I  thought  I  might 
change  so  as  to  be  able  to  do  what  you  wanted. 
Now  I  know  I  can't." 

"  And  why  ?  She  was  silent ;  he  went  on,  speak- 
ing lower.  "  Is  there  any  truth  at  all  in  what  Dick 
Benyon  thinks  ?  It  seemed  to  me  incredible.  Will 
you  tell  me  that  I  may  utterly  disbelieve  that  at  all 
events?" 

"  No,  I  can't  tell  you  to  disbelieve  it  utterly." 

The  love  for  her  which  was  his  strongest  appeal 
left  his  face;  he  looked  aghast,  at  a  loss,  almost  dis- 
gusted. His  hands  moved  in  a  gesture  of  protest. 

"  I  don't  tell  you  to  believe  it.    I  can  tell  you  noth- 


ii2  QUISANTfi. 

ing  about  it  just  now.  I  admit  you  had  a  right  to 
ask  me,  but  I  can  say  nothing  more  now." 

Again  the  chance  offered  for  him  to  make  her 
forget  Quisant£  or  remember  him  only  by  a  disad- 
vantageous comparison.  His  honest  desire  to  save 
her  combined  again  with  bitter  prejudice  to  lead  him 
wrong. 

"  I  can't  believe  it  of  you,"  he  declared.  "  I  can't 
have  been  so  wrong  about  you  as  that." 

"  I  see  nothing  to  prevent  you  from  having  been 
absolutely  wrong  about  me,"  she  said  coldly,  "  as 
wrong  about  me  as  you  are  about — other  people." 

"  If  you  mean ' 

"  Oh,  yes,  let's  be  open  with  one  another,"  she 
cried.  "  I  mean  Mr.  Quisant6  ;  you're  utterly  wrong 
and  prejudiced  about  him." 

"  He's  not  even  a  gentleman." 

"  I  suppose  he  goes  to  the  wrong  tailor !  "  said 
May  scornfully. 

He  came  a  step  nearer  to  her.  "  You  know  I 
don't  mean  that  sort  of  thing,  nor  even  other  things 
that  aren't  vital  to  life  though  they're  desirable  in 
society.  He  hasn't  the  mind  of  a  gentleman." 

Now  she  wavered  ;  she  sat  looking  at  him  with 
troubled  eyes,  feeling  he  was  right,  desiring  to  be 
persuaded,  struggling  against  the  opposing  force. 
But  Marchmont  went  on  fretfully,  almost  peevishly, 

"The  astonishing  thing  is  that  you're  blind  to 
that,  that  you  don't  see  him  as  he  really  and  truly 
is." 

"That's  just  what   I  do,"  she  cried  eagerly  and 


ADVICE  FROM  AUNT  MARIA.        113 

almost  angrily.  Marchmont's  words  had  brought 
back  what  Quisante"  could  be ;  surely  a  man's  best 
must  be  what  he  really  and  truly  is  ?  Then  his  true 
self  shows  itself  untrammelled  ;  the  measure  of  it  is 
rather  the  heights  to  which  it  can  rise  than  the  level 
on  which  it  moves  at  ordinary  times.  She  remem- 
bered Quisant£  on  Duty  Hill.  "  That's  what  I  do, 
and  you — you  and  all  of  them — don't.  You  fix  on 
his  small  faults,  faults  of  manner — oh,  yes,  and  of 
breeding  too,  I  daresay,  perhaps  of  feeling  too.  But 
to  see  a  man's  faults  is  not  to  see  the  man."  She 
rose  to  her  feet  and  faced  him.  "  I  see  him  more 
truly  than  you  do,"  she  said  proudly  and  defiantly. 
Then  her  face  grew  suddenly  soft,  and  she  caught 
his  hand.  "  My  dear  friend,  my  dear,  dear  friend," 
she  murmured,  "don't  be  unkind  to  me.  I'm  not 
happy  about  it ;  how  can  I  be  happy  about  it  ? 
Don't  make  it  worse  for  me ;  I'm  trying  to  see  the 
truth,  and  you  might  help  me ;  but  you  only  tell 
me  what  leaves  out  more  than  half  the  truth." 

He  would  not  or  could  not  respond  to  her  gentle- 
ness ;  his  evil  spirit  possessed  him  ;  he  gave  expres- 
sion to  his  anger  with  her  and  his  scorn  of  his  rival, 
not  to  his  own  love  and  his  own  tenderness. 

"  It  turns  me  almost  sick,"  he  declared,  "  to  think 
of  you  with  him." 

She  let  go  his  hand,  moved  away,  and  sat  down. 
"  If  you're  like  that,  I  can  say  no  more,"  she  said. 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  she  looked  at  him, 
but  his  heart  was  hard  to  her ;  to  him  she  seemed 
to  be  humiliating  both  him  and  herself;  the  victory 
8 


114  QUISANTE. 

of  Quisant6  at  once  insulted  him  and  degraded  her. 
Here  was  a  case  where  Alexander  Quisant6,  with 
all  his  defects,  would  have  gone  right,  while  March- 
mont  went  wrong.  It  was  a  crisis,  and  Quisante's 
insight  would  have  taught  him  how  to  handle  it,  to 
assure  her  that  whatever  she  did  he  would  be  the 
same  to  her,  that  though  he  might  not  understand 
he  would  be  loyal,  that  his  love  only  grew  greater 
with  his  pain,  that  in  everything  that  awaited  her 
he  would  be  ready  with  eager  service  and  friendship 
unimpaired.  None  of  this  came  from  Marchmont's 
lips;  he  made  no  effort  to  amend  or  palliate  his  last 
bitter  speech.  He  could  not  conquer  his  resentment, 
and  it  bred  an  answering  resentment  in  her.  "  You 
must  think  what  you  like  of  me,"  she  said,  her  voice 
growing  cold  again. 

With  the  end  of  this  interview,  with  the  depart- 
ure of  Marchmont,  still  sore,  angry,  and  blind  to  her 
point  of  view,  May  felt  that  the  matter  had  settled 
itself.  She  knew  in  her  heart  that  she  would  not 
have  turned  Marchmont  away  unless  she  had  meant 
to  bid  Quisant6  come.  For  a  little  while  she  strug- 
gled against  finality,  telling  herself  that  the  question 
was  still  an  open  one,  and  that  to  refuse  one  man 
was  not  of  necessity  to  marry  another.  Other  friends 
came  and  talked  to  her,  but  none  of  them  got  within 
her  guard  or  induced  her  to  speak  freely  to  them. 
In  the  end  she  had  to  settle  this  thing  for  herself; 
and  now  it  was  settled. 

Even  when  undertaken  in  the  conviction  of  a  full 
harmony  of  feeling,  a  community  of  mind,  and  an 


ADVICE  FROM  AUNT  MARIA.        115 

identity  of  tastes,  marriage  may  startle  by  the  ex- 
tent of  its  demands.  She  was  to  marry  a  man — 
she  faced  the  matter  and  told  herself  this — a 
man  from  whom  she  was  divided  by  the  training  of 
a  lifetime,  by  antagonisms  of  feeling  so  acute  as  to 
bite  deep  into  their  every-day  intercourse,  by  a  jar- 
ring of  tastes  which  made  him  sometimes  odious  to 
her.  In  spite  of  the  resentment  to  which  March- 
mont's  scorn  had  stung  her,  she  understood  very 
well  how  it  was  that  her  friends  failed  to  appreciate 
the  motives  of  her  action.  To  herself  she  could 
not  justify  it ;  it  was  taken  on  impulse,  not  calcula- 
tion, and  had  to  rest  in  the  end  on  the  vague  effects 
of  what  she  had  seen  in  Quisant£,  not  continually, 
not  in  his  normal  state,  but  by  fits  and  snatches,  in 
scraps  of  time  which,  all  added  together,  would 
scarcely  fill  the  hours  between  luncheon  and  din- 
ner. She  took  him  on  the  strength  of  his  moments ; 
that  was  the  case  in  plain  English,  reduced  to 
its  lowest  terms  and  its  baldest  statement.  Of 
confidence,  of  security,  of  trust  she  had  none ;  their 
place  was  filled  by  a  vague  expectancy,  an  insistent 
curiosity,  and  a  puzzled  fearful  fascination.  Not 
promising  materials  these,  out  of  which  to  make 
happiness.  She  surprised  herself  by  finding  how 
little  happiness  in  its  ordinary  sense  entered  into 
her  reckoning.  Or  if  anything  that  we  happen  to 
want  is  to  be  called  our  happiness,  then  her  happi- 
ness consisted  in,  and  refused  to  be  analysed  into 
anything  more  definite  than,  a  sort  of  necessity 
which  she  felt  of  being  near  to  Alexander  Quisant6, 


QUISANT£. 

of  sharing  his  mind  and  partaking  of  his  life.  But 
if  this  were  happiness,  then  happiness  was  not  what 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  think  it ;  where  were 
the  rest,  the  contentment,  the  placidity  and  satis- 
faction which  the  word  was  usually  considered  to 
imply  ? 

Quisant£  came  to  her,  wreathed  in  triumph.  It 
was  a  mood  she  liked  him  in ;  he  offended  her 
not  when  he  celebrated  success,  but  when  he  in- 
trigued for  it.  His  new-born  confidence  seemed  to 
make  any  drawing-back  on  her  part  impossible;  she 
had  sent  him,  she  was  bound  to  reward  the  happy 
issue  of  her  mission.  Another  thing  touched  her 
very  deeply  ;  while  protesting  his  unworthiness  of 
her,  he  based  his  humility  on  the  special  and  won- 
derful knowledge  of  her  that  he  possessed  and  re- 
ferred it  entirely  to  this  inner  secret  excellence  of 
hers  and  not  in  the  least  to  her  position  or  to  any  dif- 
ference between  his  and  hers.  He  did  not  suppose 
that  society  would  be  aghast  or  that  the  world  at 
large  would  see  cause  for  dismay  in  the  marriage. 
He  expected  hearty  congratulations  for  himself,  but 
it  was  evident  that  he  thought  she  would  have  her 
full  share  of  them  too ;  he  had,  in  fact,  no  idea  that 
May  Gaston  would  not  be  thought  to  be  doing  very 
well  for  herself.  This  mixture  of  simplicity  and 
self-appreciation,  of  ignorance  of  the  mind  of  others 
combined  with  a  knowledge  of  the  claims  of  his 
own,  took  May's  fancy  ;  she  laughed  a  little  as  she 
determined  that  the  general  opinion  of  the  matter 


ADVICE  FROM  AUNT  MARIA.       117 

must  be  kept  from  his  ears,  and  his  robust  confidence 
in  the  world's  admiration  of  him  preserved. 

"  You  say  you  know  me  so  well,"  she  said.  "  I 
know  very,  very  little  of  you  ;  and  of  what  I  know 
there's  a  lot  that's  bad." 

•  He  was  not  in  the  temper  that  had  inspired  his 
confession  of  bad  manners  and  bad  morals  on  Duty 
Hill.  He  was  inclined,  as  at  such  a  moment  he 
might  be  pardonably,  to  make  light  of  his  faults. 
He  was  not  alarmed  when  she  declared  that  if  she 
found  out  anything  very  bad  she  would  not  after 
all  become  his  wife. 

"  At  any  moment  that  you  repent,  you're  free," 
he  said  gaily.  But  she  answered  gravely, 

"  There'll  be  a  great  many  moments  when  I  shall 
repent.  You  see  I  don't  think  I  really  love  you." 
He  looked  puzzled.  "  You  know  what  I  mean  ? 
Real  love  is  so  beautifully  undiscriminating,  isn't  it? 
I'm  not  a  bit  undiscriminating  about  you  ;  and  that'll 
make  me  miserable  often ;  it'll  make  you  angry  too. 
You'll  forget  that  I  said  all  this,  that  I  told  you 
and  warned  you.  I  shall  be  (she  smiled  again  for  a 
moment)  a  critic  on  the  hearth.  And  nobody  hardly 
understands  criticism  as  badly  as  you  do." 

"  What  a  lot  of  reasons  for  refusing  me  !  "  he  said, 
still  gay,  though  with  a  hint  of  disturbance  in  his 
manner.  "  And  yet  you  don't  refuse." 

The  old  answer  which  was  all  she  could  give  to 
herself  was  all  that  she  found  herself  able  to  give  him. 

"  Somehow  I  can't  do  without  you,  you  see," 
she  said.  Then  she  suddenly  leant  forward  and 


us  QUISANT£. 

went  on  in  a  low  imploring  voice,  "  Don't  be  worse 
than  I've  ever  thought.  There  are  some  things  I 
couldn't  stand.  Please  don't."  Her  eyes,  fixed  on 
to  his,  prayed  a  reassurance  against  a  horde  of 
vague  dangers. 

He  laughed  off  the  question,  not  understanding 
how  or  why  she  came  to  put  it,  and  their  talk  passed 
to  a  lighter  vein.  But  presently  he  said,  with  a  half- 
embarrassed,  half-vexed  laugh,  "  Need  we  sit  so  far 
from  one  another  ?  " 

May  had  suffered  from  a  dread  of  the  beginning 
of  sentiment.  But  she  was  laughing  as  she  rose  and, 
crossing  the  room,  sat  down  by  him  on  the  sofa. 
"Here  I  am  then,"  she  said,  "and  you  may  kiss 
me.  And  if  you  will  ask  me  I'll  kiss  you  ;  only  I 
don't  particularly  want  to,  you  know.  I  don't  think 
of  you  in  the  very  least  as  a  man  to  be  kissed.  I've 
thought  of  other  men  much  more  in  that  way — oh, 
only  thought  of  them,  Mr.  Quisant6  !  " 

The  playful,  yet  not  meaningless,  defiance  of  a 
softer  mood,  and  of  his  power  to  induce  it  in  her, 
acted  as  a  spark  to  Quisante"'s  ardour.  It  was  just 
the  opposition  that  he  had  wanted  to  rescue  him 
from  awkwardness.  He  recovered  the  splendid  in- 
tensity which  had  marked  his  declaration  on  Duty 
Hill.  If  he  did  not  succeed  in  changing  her  feel- 
ings, at  least  he  set  her  wondering  why  they  did  not 
change  and  wrung  from  her  the  smiling  admission, 
"  You're  very  picturesque  anyhow."  She  did  not 
deny  vehemently  when  he  told  her  that  he  would 
make  her  love  him  as  he  loved  her.  "  Well,  I  never 


ADVICE  FROM  AUNT  MARIA.        119 

use  the  word  impossible  about  you,"  she  said. 
"  Only — it  hasn't  happened  yet,  you  know."  She 
paused  and  added,  with  a  touch  of  reviving  appre- 
hension, "  And  I  mayn't  always  like  you  to  behave 
as  if  it  had — though  I  don't  mind  much  to-night." 

His  manner  was  good,  almost  defying  criticism, 
as  he  reassured  her  on  this  point ;  and  when  he  left 
her,  her  predominant  impression  was  that,  so  far  as 
their  personal  relations  went,  she  had  exaggerated 
the  dangers  and  under-rated  the  attractions. 

"  I  think  he'll  always  be  rather  nice  to  me  and 
not  do  anything  very  dreadful.  But  then,  what 
will  he  do  to  other  people  ?  " 

This  was  the  fear  which  still  possessed  her  and 
which  no  fine  moment  of  his  drove  out.  She  seemed 
to  have  power  to  bring  him  to  his  best,  to  give  him 
the  cue  for  his  fine  scenes,  to  create  in  him  the  in- 
spiration to  great  moments.  But  when  he  dealt 
with  other  people,  her  power  would  be  useless.  She 
would  have  to  stand  by  and  see  him  at  his  worst, 
looking  on  no  longer  as  an  irresponsible,  as  well  as 
a  helpless,  spectator,  but  as  one  who  had  undertaken 
responsibility  for  him,  who  must  feel  for  him  what 
he  did  not  for  himself,  who  must  be  sensitive  while 
he  was  callous,  wounded  while  his  skin  went  un- 
pierced.  She  felt  that  she  had  taken  up  a  very 
solitary  position,  between  him  and  the  world,  not 
truly  at  home  with  either ;  a  sense  of  loneliness 
came  upon  her. 

"  I  shall  have  to  fight  the  whole  world,"  she  said. 
"  I  wonder  if  my  cause  is  a  good  one  ?  " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

CONTRA    MUNDUM. 

IT  was  impossible  not  to  admire  the  wealth  of 
experience  which  Mrs.  Baxter  had  gathered  from  a 
singularly  quiet  life ;  many  men  have  gone  half  a 
dozen  times  round  the  world  for  less.  Whatever 
the  situation,  whatever  the  action,  she  could  supply 
a  parallel  and  thereby  forecast  an  issue.  Superfi- 
cial differences  did  not  hinder  her  ;  she  pierced  to 
the  underlying  likeness.  When  all  the  world  was 
piteously  crying  out  that  never  in  its  life  had  it 
heard  of  such  an  affair  as  this  of  May  Gaston's, 
Mrs.  Baxter  dived  into  her  treasure -chest  and 
serenely  produced  the  case  of  the  Nonconformist 
Minister's  daughter  and  the  Circus  Proprietor.  Set 
this  affair  side  by  side  with  the  Quisant£  business, 
and  a  complete  sum  in  double  proportion  at  once 
made  its  appearance.  The  audacity  of  the  man,  the 
headlong  folly  of  the  girl,  the  hopeless  mixing  of 
incompatibles  were  common  to  the  two  cases ;  the 
issue  of  the  earlier  clearly  indicated  the  fate  that 
must  attend  the  later.  Lady  Richard  could  do 
nothing  but  gasp  out,  "  And  what  happened,  Mrs. 
Baxter  ?  " 

Mrs.  Baxter  told  her,  punctuating  the  story  with 

stitches  on  a  June  petticoat. 
120 


CONTRA  MUNDUM.  121 

"  She  ran  away  from  him  twice  ;  but  he  brought 
her  back,  and,  they  said,  beat  her  well.  At  any 
rate  she  ended  by  settling  down  to  her  new  life. 
They  had  seven  children,  all  brought  up  to  the  cir- 
cus ;  only  the  other  day  one  was  sent  to  prison  for. 
Ill-treating  the  dancing  bear.  He's  dead,  but  she 
still  keeps  the  circus  under  his  name.  Of  course  all 
her  old  friends  have  dropped  her;  indeed  I  hear  she 
drinks.  Her  father  still  preaches  once  on  Sundays." 

It  was  easy  to  disentangle  the  relevant  from  the 
merely  reminiscent ;  the  running  away,  the  beating, 
the  settling  down,  the  complete  absorption  in  the 
new  life  (vividly  indicated  by  the  seven  children  and 
their  habits),  stood  out  saliently.  Add  the  attitude 
of  old  friends,  and  Lady  Richard  could  not  deny 
the  value  of  the  parallel.  She  acknowledged  it  with 
a  long-drawn  sigh. 

"  May  Gaston  must  be  mad,"  she  observed.  "  You 
can  imagine  how  Dick  feels  about  it !  " 

"  And  all  the  while  her  cousin  in  the  Bank  was 
quite  ready  to  marry  her  and  give  her  a  nice  little 
home.  He  was  Church  and  sang  in  the  choir  at 
St.  Dunstan's." 

Without  consciously  appreciating  the  nicety  of 
the  parallel  here,  Lady  Richard  began  to  think  of 
Weston  Marchmont. 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Marchmont  '11  take  Fanny  now," 
she  said.  "  I  don't  know,  though  ;  he  won't  like  any 
sort  of  connection  with  Alexander  Quisante.  How 
selfish  people  are  !  They  never  think  of  what  their 
marriages  mean  to  their  relations." 


122  QUISANT£. 

This  observation  expressed  a  large  part  of  what 
was  felt  by  society ;  add  friends  to  relations,  and  it 
summed  up  one  side  of  the  indictment  against  May 
Gaston.  Lady  Attlebridge's  helpless  and  bewildered 
woe  was  one  instance  of  its  truth,  Fanny's  rage 
another ;  to  look  farther  afield,  May's  friends  and 
acquaintances  discovered  great  cause  for  vexation 
in  that  they  saw  themselves  somehow  "  let  in  for  " 
Ouisant£.  At  least  the  alternative  was  to  drop 
May  Gaston  as  entirely  as  the  unfortunate  circus 
proprietor's  wife  had  been  dropped  ;  and  this  alter- 
native was  a  difficult  one.  Had  Quisant£'s  raid 
resulted  in  the  seizure  of  some  insignificant  colourless 
girl  who  had  been  merely  tolerated  for  the  sake  of  who 
she  was  without  possessing  any  claims  in  respect 
of  what  she  was,  the  dropping  would  have  been  easy  ; 
but  May  was  not  of  that  kind.  She  was  not  only 
one  of  them,  but  very  conspicuous  among  them, 
one  of  their  ornaments,  one  in  whom  they  took 
pride ;  they  would  have  acknowledged  in  her  a 
natural  leader  so  soon  as  a  suitable  marriage  gave 
her  the  necessary  status  and  experience.  Her 
treachery  was  the  more  flagrant,  Quisant£'s  presump- 
tion the  more  enormous,  their  own  course  of  action 
the  more  puzzling  to  decide. 

Yet  in  their  hearts  they  knew  that  they  must 
swallow  the  man  ;  events  were  too  strong  for  them. 
Dick  Benyon  had  forced  him  on  them  in  one  side 
of  life,  May  Gaston  now  did  the  like  in  another ; 
henceforward  he  must  be  and  would  be  among 
them.  This  consciousness  mingled  an  ingredient  of 


CONTRA  MUNDUM.  123 

asperity  with  their  genuine  pity  for  May.  She  would 
not  merely  have  herself  to  thank  for  the  troubles 
which  would  certainly  come  upon  her ;  her  misfor- 
tunes must  be  regarded  as  in  part  a  proper  pun- 
ishment for  the  annoyance  she  was  inflicting  on  her 
friends.  As  for  Dick  Benyon,  it  was  impossible  to 
speak  to  him  without  perceiving  that  if  remorse  be 
in  truth  the  sharpest  penalty  of  sin,  he  was  already 
punished  enough. 

The  poor  man's  state  was  indeed  such  as  to  move 
compassion.  Besides'  his  old  friend  Lady  Attle- 
bridge's  dumbly  accusing  eyes,  besides  Fanny's  and 
Lady  Richard's  by  no  means  dumb  reproaches,  a 
very  heavy  blow  had  fallen  on  him.  In  the  words 
of  his  own  complaint,  his  brother  Jimmy  had  gone 
back  on  him — and  back  on  his  allegiance  to  Alex- 
ander Quisante".  The  engagement  was  too  much 
for  Jimmy,  and  in  the  revulsion  of  feeling  he  be- 
came downright  hostile  to  Quisante"'s  claims  and 
pretensions.  How  could  he  not  when  Fanny  Gaston 
imperiously  and  almost  tearfully  commanded  him  to 
attach  himself  to  her  banner,  and  to  behold  with  her 
eyes  the  indignity  suffered  by  the  noble  family  of 
Gaston  ?  Logic  was  not  Jimmy's  strong  point,  and 
he  confounded  poor  Dick  by  the  twofold  assertion 
that  the  thing  was  utterly  incredible,  and  that 
Dick  and  he  had  been  most  inconceivably  idiotic 
not  to  have  foreseen  it  from  the  first  hour  that 
they  took  up  Quisante".  In  this  stress  of  feel- 
ing the  brothers  spoke  to  one  another  with  can- 
dour. 


124  QUISANT£. 

"  You  know  how  I  feel  about  Fanny,"  said  Jimmy, 
"  so  you  can  imagine  how  much  I  like  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know ;  and  I  quite  understand  that 
you  wanted  Marchmont  to  marry  May,"  Dick  re- 
torted in  an  alien  savageness  born  of  his  wounded 
spirit. 

Jimmy  was  taken  aback  by  this  direct  onslaught, 
but  his  native  honesty  forbade  him  to  deny  the 
charge  point-blank. 

"  Supposing  she  came  to  like  me,"  he  grumbled, 
"  it  wouldn't  be  over  and  above  pleasant  to  have 
Quisante  for  a  brother-in-law." 

Dick  was  roused  ;  he  summoned  up  his  old  faith 
and  his  old  admiration. 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  he  said,  "the  only  chance  you 
have  of  your  name  being  known  to  posterity  is  if 
you  succeed  in  becoming  his  brother-in-law." 

"  Damn  posterity,"  said  Jimmy,  tugging  at  his 
moustache.  He  had  never  entertained  the  absurd 
idea  of  interesting  future  ages.  He  began  tp  per- 
ceive more  and  more  clearly  how  ridiculous  his 
brother  had  made  himself  over  the  fellow ;  he  had 
shared  in  the  folly,  but  now  at  least  he  could  repent 
and  dissociate  himself  from  it. 

"  What  does  the  Dean  say  ? "  he  asked  mali- 
ciously. 

"  I  dare  say  you  won't  understand,"  Dick  an- 
swered in  measured  tones,  "  but  the  Dean's  got 
sense  enough  to  say  nothing.  Talking's  no  use,  is 
it?" 

Few  indeed  shared  the  Dean's   wisdom,  or   the 


CONTRA  MUNDUM.  125 

somewhat  limited  view  that  talking  is  only  to  be 
practised  when  it  chances  to  be  useful.  Are  we 
never  to  discuss  the  obvious  or  to  deplore  the  in- 
evitable ?  From  so  stern  a  code  human  nature 
revolts,  and  the  storm  of  volubility  went  on  in  spite 
of  the  silence  of  the  Dean  of  St.  Neot's.  Even  this 
silence  was  imperfect  in  so  far  as  the  Dean  said  a 
word  or  two  in  private  to  Morewood  when  he  visited 
him  in  his  studio,  and  the  pair  were  looking  at 
Quisante's  picture.  Dick  Benyon  was  less  anxious 
now  to  have  it  finished  and  sent  home  in  the  short- 
est possible  time. 

"  You've  seen  some  good  in  him,"  said  the  Dean, 
pointing  to  the  picture. 

"  Well — something  anyhow,"  said  Morewood. 

"  I  think,  you  know,"  the  Dean  pursued  medita- 
tively, "  that  a  great  woman  might  succeed  in  what 
she  s  undertaken  (Morewood  did  not  need  the  men- 
tion of  May  Gaston's  name),  at  the  cost  of  sacri- 
ficing all  her  other  interests  and  most  of  her  feel- 
ings." 

Morewood  was  lighting  his  pipe  and  made  no 
answer. 

"  Is  our  dear  young  friend  a  great  woman, 
though  ?  "  asked  the  Dean. 

"  She  aspires  to  be,"  said  Morewood ;  he  was 
sneering  as  usual,  but  rather  at  aspirations  in  general 
than  at  any  unusual  absurdity  in  May  Gaston's; 
thus  at  least  the  Dean  understood  him. 

"  You  mean  that  that's  at  the  bottom  of  the 
trouble  ?  "  he  inquired,  smiling  a  little. 


126  QUISANT£. 

"  Oh,  yes,'*  answered  Morewood,  weary  of  indi- 
cating what  was  so  apparent. 

"  You've  dived  down  to  something  in  that  picture ; 
perhaps  she  has." 

"  Yes,  she  has."  Morewood  looked  straight  at  the 
Dean  as  he  added,  "  But  I  can  leave  out  the  other 
things,  you  see.  That's  the  difference." 

"  And  she  can't  ?  No.  That  is  the  difference. 
She'll  have  to  live  with  the  other  things."  He 
looked  courageously  at  Morewood  and  ended,  "  We 
must  trust  in  God."  Either  the  sincerity  or  the  un- 
expectedness of  the  remark  kept  Morewood  silent. 

No  such  ambition  as  these  two  imputed  to  her 
consciously  animated  May  Gaston.  Just  now  she 
was  content  if  she  could  persuade  her  mother  that 
people  after  all  said  nothing  very  dreadful  (for  what 
was  said  was  always  more  to  Lady  Attlebridge  than 
what  was  true),  could  keep  on  something  like  friendly 
relations  with  her  sister,  and  could  maintain  a 
cheerful  view  of  her  own  position  and  of  her  experi- 
ment. Inevitably  the  hostility  of  his  future  mother- 
in-law  and  of  Fanny  brought  out  the  worst  side 
of  Quisant6's  manners  ;  in  the  effort  to  conciliate 
he  almost  fawned.  May  had  to  find  consolation  in 
a  growth  of  openness  and  simplicity  towards  herself. 
And  she  had  one  notable  triumph  which  more  than 
anything  else  brought  her  through  the  trial  with 
her  purpose  unshaken  and  her  faith  even  a  little 
strengthened.  It  was  not  a  complete  triumph,  and 
in  trying  to  push  it  too  far  she  suffered  a  slight 
rebuff ;  but  there  was  hope  to  be  had  from  it,  it 


CONTRA  MUNDUM.  127 

seemed  to  open  a  prospect  of  successes  more  ample. 
She  made  Quisante"  send  back  Aunt  Maria's  five 
hundred  pounds  before  Mr.  Mandeville's  operations 
had  resulted  either  in  safety  or  in  gain. 

"  You  see,  she  never  gave  it  you  to  use  in  specula- 
tion," she  had  said.  "  It  isn't  right,  you  must  see 
it  isn't.  Have  you  got  the  money?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  meant  to  buy  you " 

"  No,  no,  I  wouldn't  have  it.  Now  do  send  it 
back.  I  know  you  see  what  I  mean."  Her  voice 
grew  doubtful  and  imploring. 

"  Oh,  yes,  in  a  way.  But  I  shan't  lose  it,  you 
know." 

"  That  doesn't  make  the  least  difference." 

"  If  it  pleases  you,  I'll  send  it  back." 

"  Well,  do,"  she  said  with  a  little  sigh.  The  mo- 
tive was  not  that  which  she  wished  to  rouse,  but 
very  likely  it  was  that  with  which  she  must  begin 
her  work.  Then  she  tried  the  further  step.  "  And 
any  profit  you  make,  if  you  make  any,  you  ought 
to  send  too,"  she  said. 

Genuine  surprise  was  exhibited  on  Quisante"s 
face.  "  What,  after  sending  back  the  five  hundred  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,  you  ought."  She  made  a  little  concession 
by  adding,  "  Strictly,  you  know."  Quisante"  looked 
at  her,  kissed  her  hand,  and  laughed.  Her  sense  of 
humour,  which  she  began  to  perceive  would  rather 
hamper  her,  made  her  join  in  the  laugh.  "  Do  you 
think  me  very  absurd?  No,  no,  not  compliments! 
Truth,  truth  always  !  " 


128  QUISANTfi. 

"  I  call  the  suggestion  rather — well,  rather  fanci- 
ful," said  he. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you  do,"  she  sighed.  "  Do  you 
know  what  I  hope  ?  "  she  went  on.  "  I  hope  that 
some  day  that  sort  of  suggestion  will  seem  a  matter 
of  course  to  you." 

He  stopped  laughing  and  looked  put  out.  She 
saw  that  his  vanity  was  hurt.  "  But  I  hope  all  sorts 
of  unusual  things  about  you, "she  went  on,  her  con- 
science rebuking  her  for  using  the  wile  of  flattery. 
But  it  served  well ;  the  cloud  passed  from  his  face,  as 
he  begged  her  not  to  expect  to  see  him  a  saint  too 
soon. 

A  few  days  later  he  came  in  radiant ;  the  opera- 
tion had  gone  splendidly,  there  was  a  cent,  per  cent, 
profit ;  she  was  to  come  with  him  and  buy  the  neck- 
lace at  once.  May  loved  necklaces  and  liked  him 
for  being  so  eager  to  give  her  one.  And  she  did 
not  wish  to  appear  in  the  light  of  a  prig  (that  had 
probably  been  his  impression  of  her)  again  so  soon. 
But  had  he  not  the  evening  before,  as  they  talked 
over  their  prospects,  told  her  that  he  owed  Dick 
Benyon  a  thousand  pounds  or  more,  and  was  in 
arrears  with  the  instalments  by  which  the  debt  was 
to  be  liquidated  ?  By  a  not  unnatural  turn  of  her 
mind  she  found  herself  less  able  to  allow  him  to 
forget  his  obligation,  less  able  to  indulge  him  in  the 
temporary  extravagance  of  a  lover,  than  if  he  had 
been  a  man  on  whose  punctilious  honour  in  all 
matters  of  money  she  relied  absolutely.  She 
was  more  affectionate  and  more  effusive  to  him 


CONTRA  MUNDUM.  129 

than  usual,  and  it  was  with  a  kiss  that  she  whis- 
pered, 

"  Give  me  the  money,  not  the  necklace." 

"  The  money  ?  "  he  said  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,  to  do  what  I  like  with.  At  least  give  me 
your  promise  to  do  what  I  ask  with  it." 

He  was  suspicious  and  his  face  showed  it.  She 
laughed.  "  Yes,  I'm  worrying  again,"  she  said.  "  I 
can  now,  you  see.  When  we're  married  I  shan't 
have  the  power." 

"  You'll  always  have  absolute  power  over  me." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  that  was  true  !  "  she  said.  4<  No,  I 
don't,"  came  an  instant  later.  "  If  I  thought  that, 
I'd  never  speak  to  you  again."  Moving  away  a 
little,  she  turned  her  head  back  towards  him  and 
went  on,  "  Use  it  to  pay  Dick  Benyon.  I'd  rather 
you  did  that  than  gave  me  a  thousand  necklaces." 

"  Oh,  Dick's  in  no  hurry  ;  he's  got  lots  of  money." 
Quisante  was  visibly  vexed  this  time.  "  Aren't  you 
going  to  allow  me  to  give  you  anything  ? "  he 
asked. 

She  had  a  struggle  to  win  this  time,  and  again 
had  to  call  in  the  ally  she  distrusted,  an  appeal  to 
his  vanity.  She  told  him  that  it  hurt  her  idea,  her 
great  idea,  of  him,  that  he  should  be  in  any  way 
under  obligations  to  or  dependent  on  anybody. 
This  way  of  putting  the  matter  caught  his  fancy, 
which  had  remained  blind  to  the  more  prosaic  aspect 
of  the  case.  "You  must  stand  by  your  own 
strength,"  she  said.  She  had  to  go  a  step  farther 
still.  "  It'll  make  Amy  Benyon  quite  angry  too  ; 
9 


QUISANT£. 

it'll  take  away  one  of  her  grievances.  Don't  pay 
only  the  arrears,  pay  all  you  can."  Thus  she  won 
and  was  comforted,  in  spite  of  her  suspicion  of  the 
weapons  that  she  found  herself  obliged  to  use. 

Comfort  she  needed  sadly,  and  it  could  come  only 
from  Quisante  himself.  For  the  rest  the  sense  of 
loneliness  was  strong  upon  her,  and  with  it  a  bit- 
terness that  this  time  in  her  life  should  be  so  dif- 
ferent from  what  it  was  in  the  lives  of  most  girls. 
The  superficials  were  there ;  friends  sent  presents 
and  Lady  Attlebridge  was  as  particular  about  the 
gowns  and  so  forth  as  though  the  match  had  been 
absolutely  to  her  liking.  But  there  was  no  sincere 
congratulation,  no  sympathy,  no  envy.  Her  en- 
gagement was  a  mistake,  her  marriage  a  tragedy ; 
that  was  the  verdict  ;  she  saw  it  in  every  glance 
and  discerned  it  under  every  civil  speech.  The 
common  judgment,  the  opinion  of  the  group  we 
have  lived  with,  has  a  force  irrespective  of  its 
merit ;  there  were  times  when  May  sank  under  the 
burden  of  it  and  almost  retreated.  Then  she  was 
outwardly  most  contented,  took  Quisant£  every- 
where with  her,  tried  (as  people  said)  to  thrust  him 
down  everybody's  throat,  even  pretended  a  love 
which  she  had  expressly  denied  to  the  man  himself. 
All  this  done,  she  would  fly  to  solitude  and  there  be 
a  victim  to  her  fears,  shudder  at  the  risk  she  had 
elected  to  run,  and  pray  for  any  strange  convulsion 
of  events  to  rescue  her. 

None  came  ;  time  went  on,  people  settled  down 
to  the  notion  ;  only  to  a  small  circle  the  matter 


CONTRA  MUNDUM.  131 

retained  a  predominant  interest.  The  rest  of  the 
world  could  not  go  on  talking  about  it  for  ever ; 
they  had  a  number  of  other  people's  affairs  to  attend 
to,  and  the  vagaries  of  one  fanciful  young  woman 
could  not  occupy  their  important  minds  for  ever. 
None  the  less,  they  turned  away  with  a  pleasant 
sense  that  they  might  find  good  reason  for  turning 
back  presently  ;  let  a  year  or  two  of  the  marriage 
run,  and  there  might  be  something  to  look  at 
again. 

But  to  one  man  the  thing  never  became  less 
strange,  less  engrossing,  or  less  horrible.  Weston 
Marchmont  abandoned  as  pure  folly  the  attempt 
to  accustom  his  mind  to  it  or  to  acquiesce  in  it ; 
he  had  not  the  power  to  cease  to  think  of  it.  It 
was  unnatural ;  to  that  he  returned  always  ;  and  it 
ousted  what  surely  was  natural,  what  his  whole 
being  cried  out  was  meant,  if  there  were  such  a 
thing  as  a  purpose  in  human  lives  at  all.  Disguised 
by  his  habit  of  self-repression  before  others,  his 
passion  was  as  strong  as  Quisant6's  own  ;  it  was 
backed  by  a  harmony  of  tastes  and  a  similarity  of 
training  which  gave  it  increased  intensity  ;  it  had 
been  encouraged  by  an  apparent  promise  of  success, 
now  turned  to  utter  failure.  Amy  Benyon  might 
think  that  he  would  now  marry  Fanny,  if  only  he 
could  endure  such  an  indirect  connection  with  Qui- 
sant£.  To  himself  it  seemed  so  impossible  to  think 
of  anyone  but  May  that  in  face  of  facts  he  could 
not  believe  that  he  was  not  foremost  in  her  heart. 
The  facts  meant  marriage,  it  seemed  ;  he  denied 


132  QUISANTE. 

that  they  meant  love.  He  discerned  what  May  had 
said  to  Quisante" — although  not  of  course  that  she 
had  said  it — and  it  filled  him  with  a  more  unendur- 
able revolt.  He  might  have  tolerated  a  defeat  in 
love ;  not  to  be  defeated  and  yet  to  suffer  all  the 
pains  of  the  vanquished  was  not  to  be  borne.  But 
he  was  helpless,  and  when  he  had  tried  to  plead  his 
cause  he  had  done  himself  no  good.  He  had  rather 
so  conducted  himself  as  to  give  May  Gaston  the 
right  to  shut  the  door  on  any  further  friendship 
with  him  ;  towards  her  future  husband  he  had  never 
varied  from  an  attitude  of  cool  disdain.  It  was 
more  than  a  month  since  he  had  seen  her,  it  was 
longer  since  he  had  done  more  than  nod  carelessly 
to  Quisante"  as  they  passed  one  another  in  the  lobby 
or  the  smoking-room. 

Then  one  day,  a  fortnight  before  the  marriage, 
he  met  Quisahte"  as  they  were  both  leaving  the 
House  about  four  o'clock.  On  a  sudden  impulse 
he  joined  his  rival.  He  knew  his  man  ;  Quisante"  re- 
ceived him  with  friendliness  and  even  effusion,  and 
invited  him  to  join  him  in  a  call  at  Lady  Attle- 
bridge's.  They  went  on  together,  Quisante"  elated 
at  this  new  evidence  of  his  power  to  reconcile 
opposition  and  conciliate  support,  Marchmont  filled 
with  a  vague  painful  curiosity  and  a  desire  to  see 
the  two  together  at  the  cost  of  any  suffering  the 
sight  might  bring  him. 

The  drawing-room  at  Lady  Attlebridge's  was  a 
double  room ;  in  one  half  May  sat  reading,  in  the 
other  her  mother  dozed.  May  rose  with  a  start  as 


CONTRA  MUNDUM.  133 

the  men  entered  together ;  her  face  flushed  as  she 
greeted  Marchmont  and  bade  Quisant£  go  and  pay 
his  respects  to  her  mother. 

"  I  hardly  expected  ever  to  see  you  again,"  she 
said.  "And  I  didn't  expect  Mr.  Quisante  to  bring 
you."  Her  tone  was  oddly  expressive  at  once  of 
pleasure  and  regret,  of  anticipation  and  fear. 
"  Have  you  made  friends  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  answered  under  the  impulse  of  his  mood. 

"  We  must  make  friends,"  he  said,  "  or  I  shall 
never  see  any  more  of  you." 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  want  to."  She  liked  him 
too  well  not  to  show  a  little  coquetry,  a  little 
challenge. 

"  I  thought  so  too,  or  tried  to  think  so." 

"  I  was  sure  you  had  deserted  me.  You  said  such 
— well,  such  severe  things." 

"  I  say  them  all  still." 

"  But  here  you  are  !  "  she  cried,  laughing. 

"  Yes,  here  I  am,"  said  he,  but  he  was  grave  and 
looked  intently  at  her.  She  grew  red  again  as  she 
met  his  gaze,  and  frowned  a  little. 

"  I'm  not  sure  I'm  glad  you've  come  after  all," 
she  said  after  a  pause.  "  Why  have  you  come  ?  I 
don't  quite  understand." 

"  I've  come  to  see  you,  to  look  on  at  your  happi- 
ness," he  answered. 

"  You've  no  right  to  talk  like  that." 

They  became  silent.  From  the  inner  room  they 
heard  Lady  Attlebridge's  nervous  efforts  at  conver- 
sation and  Quisant£'s  fluent,  too  fluent,  responses. 


134  QUISANTfi. 

He  was  telling  the  good  lady  about  her  great  social 
influence,  and,  little  as  she  liked  him,  she  seemed  to 
listen  eagerly.  Marchmont  looked  at  May  and 
smiled.  He  was  disappointed  when  she  returned 
his  smile. 

"  He's  a  little  too  much  of  a  politician, isn't  he?" 
she  asked. 

Her  refusal  to  perceive  the  insinuation  of  his  smile 
made  him  ashamed  of  it. 

"  We  all  are,  when  we've  something  to  get,  I  sup- 
pose," he  said  with  a  shrug. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  you  need  reproach  yourself," 
she  exclaimed,  laughing. 

There  was  a  short  pause.  Then  he  said  sud- 
denly, 

"  You're  the  one  person  in  the  world   to  talk  to." 

Now  she  neither  laughed  nor  yet  rebuked  him, 
and,  as  his  eyes  met  hers,  he  seemed  to  have  no  fear 
that  she  would  do  either  the  one  or  the  other.  Yet 
he  could  not  quite  understand  her  look  ;  did  she 
pity  him  or  did  she  entreat  for  herself?  For  his  life 
he  could  not  answer.  The  only  thing  he  knew  was 
that  she  would  follow  her  path  and  take  for  husband 
the  man  who  flattered  Lady  Attlebridge  in  the  inner 
room.  Then  she  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes,  do  come,  come  and  see  us  afterwards,  come 
as  often  as  you  like."  He  raised  his  eyes  to  hers 
again.  "  Because  the  oftener  you  come,  the  more 
you'll  understand  him,  and  the  better  you  under, 
stand  him,  the  better  you'll  know  why  I'm  doing 
what  I  am." 


CONTRA  MUNDUM.  135 

The  soft  look  of  pity  or  of  entreaty  vanished  from 
her  eyes  now.  She  seemed  to  speak  in  a  strong  and 
even  defiant  confidence.  But  he  met  her  with  a 
resolute  dissent. 

"  If  you  want  me,  I'll  come.  But  I  shan't  under- 
stand why  you  did  what  you're  doing  and  I  shall 
never  see  in  him  what  you  want  me  to  see."  He 
looked  round  and  saw  Quisant6  preparing  to  join 
them.  "  Am  I  to  come,  then  ?  "  he  asked. 

Quisant£  was  walking  towards  them ;  she  an- 
swered with  a  nervous  laugh,  "  I  think  you  must 
come  sometimes  anyhow."  Then  she  raised  her 
voice  and  said  to  Quisante",  "  I'm  telling  Mr. 
Marchmont  that  I  shall  expect  to  see  him  often  at 
our  house." 

Quisant6  seconded  her  invitation  with  more  than 
adequate  enthusiasm  ;  if  Marchmont  were  converted 
to  him,  who  could  still  be  obstinate  ?  The  two  men 
began  to  talk,  May  falling  more  and  more  into 
silence.  She  did  not  accuse  Marchmont  of  deliber- 
ate malice,  but  by  chance  or  the  freak  of  some 
mischievous  demon  everything  he  said  led  Quisant6 
on  to  display  his  weaknesses.  She  knew  that 
Marchmont  marked  them  every  one  ;  he  was  too 
well  bred  to  show  his  consciousness  by  so  much  as 
the  most  fleeting  glance  at  her;  yet  she  could  have 
met  such  a  glance  with  understanding,  yes,  with 
sympathy,  and  would  have  had  to  summon  up  by 
artificial  effort  the  resentment  that  convention  de- 
manded of  her.  The  sight  of  the  two  men  brought 
home  to  her  with  a  new  and  an  almost  terrible 


136  QUISANT£. 

sharpness  the  divorce  between  her  emotional  liking 
and  her  intellectual  interest.  And  in  a  matter 
which  all  experience  declared  to  concern  the  emo- 
tions primarily,  she  had  elected  to  give  foremost  place 
to  the  intellect,  to  suffer  under  an  ever  recurring  jar 
of  the  feelings  for  the  sake  of  an  occasional  treat 
to  the  brain.  That  was  her  prospect  unless  she 
could  transform  the  nature  of  Alexander  Quisant6. 
"  Marry  a  nice  man  of  your  own  sort,  and  then  be 
as  much  interested  as  you  like  in  Sandro."  Aunt 
Maria's  advice  echoed  in  her  ears  as  she  watched  the 
two  men  round  whom  the  struggle  of  her  soul 
centred,  the  struggle  that  she  had  thought  was 
finished  on  the  day  when  she  promised  to  become 
Alexander  Quisant£'s  wife. 

"  I  shall  keep  you  both  to  your  word,"  said  March- 
mont  when  he  left  them.  May  nodded,  smiling 
slightly.  Quisant£  said  all  and  more  than  all  the 
proper  things. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LEAD   US  NOT. 

AFTER  a  long  sojourn  in  kindlier  climates,  Miss 
Quisant6  returned  to  England  some  eighteen 
months  after  May  Gaston's  marriage.  From  vari- 
ous hotels  and  boarding-houses  she  had  watched 
with  an  interested  eye  the  progress  of  public  affairs 
so  far  as  they  concerned  her  nephew.  She  had  seen 
how  his  name  became  more  prominent  and  was 
more  frequently  mentioned,  how  the  hopes  and 
fears  about  him  grew,  how  he  had  gained  glory  by 
dashing  sorties  in  defence  of  the  severely-pressed 
Government  garrison  ;  if  the  garrison  decided  (as 
rumour  said  they  would)  to  sally  out  and  try  fortune 
in  the  open  field  of  a  General  Election,  and  proved 
victorious,  it  could  not  be  doubted  that  they  would 
bestow  a  handsome  reward  on  their  gallant  defender. 
Quisant£  bid  fair  to  eclipse  his  rivals  and  to  justify 
to  the  uttermost  Dick  Benyon's  sagacity  and  en- 
thusiasm. The  bitterness  of  the  foe  told  the  same 
story ;  unless  a  man  is  feared,  he  is  not  caricatured 
in  a  comic  paper  in  the  guise  of  a  juggler  keeping 
three  balls  in  the  air  at  once,  the  said  balls  being 
each  of  them  legibly  inscribed  with  one  of  the  three 

'37 


138  QUISANT£. 

words,  "  Gas — Gabble — Grab."  Such  a  straining  of 
the  usual  amenity  of  controversy  witnesses  to  grave 
apprehension.  Miss  Quisante  in  her  pension  at 
Florence  smiled  contentedly. 

Of  his  private  life  her  information  had  not  been 
very  ample.  She  had  heard  several  times  from  May, 
but  May  occupied  her  pen  chiefly  with  her  hus- 
band's political  aims.  She  had  heard  once  from 
Sandro  himself,  when  he  informed  her  that  his  wife 
had  borne  him  a  daughter  and  that  all  had  gone  very 
well  indeed.  Again  Miss  Quisante  smiled  approv- 
ingly. She  sent  her  love  to  May  and  expressed 
to  Sandro  the  hope  that  the  baby  would  resemble 
its  mother  in  appearance,  constitution,  and  disposi- 
tion ;  the  passage  was  a  good  example  of  that  ex- 
fressio  unius  which  is  a  most  emphatic  and  unmis- 
takable exclusio  alterius.  In  the  letter  she  enclosed 
a  cheque  for  three  hundred  pounds  ;  the  pensions 
were  cheaper  than  the  flat,  and  thus  this  service  had 
become  possible. 

The  Quisant£s  had  taken  a  house  in  Grosvenor 
Road,  near  Westminster  for  Quisante's  convenience, 
by  the  river,  in  obedience  to  his  wife's  choice.  Here 
Miss  Quisante  was  welcomed  by  her  nephew's  wife 
and  shown  her  nephew's  daughter.  May  watched 
the  old  lady's  face  as  she  perfunctorily  kissed  and 
critically  inspected  the  infant. 

"  Gaston  !  "  said  Aunt  Maria  at  last ;  relief  was 
clamorous  in  her  tone. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Quisante^  Gaston,  I  think,"  said  May, 
laughing. 


LEAD  US  NOT.  139 

The  nurse  admitted  the  predominance  of  Gaston, 
but  with  a  professional  keenness  of  eye  began  to 
point  out  minor  points  in  which  the  baby  "  favoured  " 
her  father. 

"  Nonsense,  my  good  woman,"  snapped  Aunt 
Maria.  "  The  child's  got  two  legs  and  two  arms,  I 
suppose,  as  its  father  has,  but  that's  all  the  likeness." 
Somewhat  ruffled  (her  observations  had  been  well 
meant)  the  nurse  carried  off  her  charge. 

"  You  look  very  well,"  Aunt  Maria  went  on,  "  but 
older,  my  dear." 

"  I  am  both  well  and  older,"  said  May  cheerfully. 
"Think  of  my  responsibilities  !  There's  the  baby! 
And  then  Alexander's  been  seedy.  And  we  aren't 
as  rich  as  we  should  like  to  be ;  you  of  all  people 
must  know  that.  And  there's  going  to  be  an  elec- 
tion and  our  seat's  very  shaky.  So  the  cares  of 
the  world  are  on  me." 

"  Sandro's  been  doing  well." 

"  Splendidly,  simply  splendidly.  It's  impossible 
to  doubt  that  he'll  do  great  things  if — if  all  goes 
well,  and  he  doesn't  make  mistakes." 

"  Seems  like  making  mistakes,  does  he  ?  " 

"Oh.no.     I  only  said 'if.'" 

"  And  you're  as  happy  as  you  expected  to  be  ?  " 

"  Quite,  thanks." 

"  I  see.  Just  about,"  was  Miss  Quisant£'s  next 
observation ;  since  it  was  a  little  hard  to  answer, 
May  smiled  and  rang  the  bell  for  tea. 

"  You're  very  gay,  I  suppose  ?  "  asked  the  old 
lady. 


140  QUISANTE. 

"Just  as  many  parties  as  I  can  find  gowns  for," 
May  declared. 

"  Seen  anything  of  the  Benyons  lately  ?  " 

A  little  shadow  came  on  May's  face.  "  I  hardly 
ever  see  Jimmy  except  at  mother's,"  she  answered. 
"  Dick  comes  sometimes."  She  paused  a  moment, 
and  then  added,  "  I  expect  him  this  afternoon." 

"  Is  he  still  as  devoted  to  Sandro  ?  " 

"  He  believes  in  his  abilities  as  enthusiastically  as 
ever."  The  dry  laugh  which  Miss  Quisante  gave 
was  as  significant  as  her  "  Just  about,"  a  few  minutes 
before.  This  time  May  did  not  laugh,  but  looked 
gravely  at  Aunt  Maria.  "  They've  had  a  little  dif- 
ference on  a  political  matter.  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
what  Dick  calls  the  Crusade?  His  great  Church 
movement,  you  know." 

"  Lord,  yes,  my  dear.  Sandro  once  speechified 
to  me  about  it  for  an  hour." 

"  Well,  he  doesn't  speechify  so  much  now  ;  he 
doesn't  believe  in  it  so  much,  and  Dick's  annoyed. 
That's  natural,  I  think,  though  perhaps  it's  a  little 
silly  of  him.  However,  if  you  wait,  he'll  tell  you 
about  it  himself." 

"  Why  doesn't  Sandro  believe  in  it  so  much  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  said  that  he  doesn't 
think  the  present  time  a  suitable  one  for  pressing  it." 

"  I  see,"  said  Miss  Quisante\  sipping  her  tea.  May 
looked  at  her  again  and  seemed  about  to  speak,  but 
in  the  end  she  only  smiled.  She  was  amused  at  the 
old  lady's  questions,  impelled  to  speak  plainly  to 
her,  and  restrained  only  by  the  sense  that  any  ad- 


LEAD  US  NOT.  141 

mission  she  might  seem  to  make  would  be  used  to 
the  full  against  her  husband  by  his  faithful  and 
liberal  aunt. 

"  He  says  he  has  good  reasons,  and  Dick  Benyon 
says  they're  bad  ones,"  she  ended  by  explaining, 
though  it  was  not  much  of  an  explanation  after  all. 

Miss  Quisant£  had  the  curiosity  to  await  Dick 
Benyon's  coming,  and,  in  spite  of  his  evident  ex- 
pectation of  a  t$te-h-t$te,  not  to  go  immediately  on 
his  arrival.  She  was  struck  with  the  air  of  mingled 
affection  and  compassion  with  which  he  greeted  his 
healthy,  handsome,  smiling  young  hostess.  More- 
over he  was  himself  apologetic,  as  though  suffering 
from  a  touch  of  remorse.  He  began  to  talk  trifles, 
but  May  brought  him  to  the  point. 

"  I  read  the  speech  after  I  got  your  letter,"  she 
said.  "  I'm  sorry  you  don't  like  it,  but  Alexander 
must  consider  the  practical  aspect  of  the  matter. 
You  won't  do  your  cause  any  good  by  urging  it  out 
of  season." 

"  In  season  and  out  of  season  ;  that's  the  only 
way." 

"  You  might  be  an  Irish  member,"  said  May, 
smiling. 

Dick  was  too  much  in  earnest  to  be  diverted  to 
mirth.  The  presence  of  Miss  Quisante  still  seemed 
to  make  him  a  little  uncomfortable,  but  the  old  lady 
did  not  move.  May  gave  her  no  hint,  and  he  was 
too  full  of  his  subject  to  hold  his  tongue. 

"  I  want  you  to  speak  to  him  about  it,"  he 
went  on. 


142  QUISANT£. 

"To  urge  him  to  do  what  he  thinks  a  mistake?" 

Dick  grew  a  little  hot.  "  To  urge  him  not  to  go 
back  on  the  cause  and  on — on  his  friends,  and 

almost  to  laugh  at  them  for "  He  paused  and 

looked  at  May ;  she  was  smiling  steadily.  He  did 
not  end  quite  as  bluntly  as  he  had  meant.  "  I 
think  that  he  has,  unconsciously  no  doubt,  allowed 
personal  considerations  to  influence  him." 

A  short  sudden  chuckle  came  from  Aunt  Maria ; 
she  rose  to  her  feet  and  crossed  the  room  to  May. 

"If  he's  going  to  abuse  Sandro,  I  mustn't  stay," 
she  said.  "  I  couldn't  bear  to  lose  any  of  my  illu- 
sions, my  dear."  She  kissed  May  and  added,  "  You 
might  tell  him  to  come  and  see  me,  though.  I 
should  like  to  hear  what  he's  got  in  his  head  now. 
Good-bye,  Lord  Richard.  Don't  you  fret  about 
your  Crusade.  Sandro'll  take  it  up  again  when  it's 
convenient."  She  chuckled  again  at  the  puzzled 
stare  which  accompanied  Dick's  shake  of  the  hand. 

"  A  very  kind  old  woman,  but  with  a  rather  mali- 
cious tongue,"  said  May.  She  walked  to  the  hearth 
and  stood  there,  facing  her  visitor.  "  Now,  Dick, 
what  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  Dean's  tremendously  hurt  about  it  ;  he 
doesn't  say  much,  but  he  feels  it  deeply." 

"  I'm  very  sorry.  What  are  the  personal  con- 
siderations ?  " 

"  You  know  Henstead  ?  "  It  was  the  borough 
for  which  Quisant6  sat.  "  There's  an  old  Wesleyan 
colony  there  ;  several  of  them  are  very  rich  and  em- 
ploy a  lot  of  labour  and  so  on.  They've  always 


LEAD  US  NOT.  143 

voted  for  us.  And  they've  found  a  lot  of  the  money. 
They  found  a  lot  when  Quisant6  got  in  before." 

"Yes?"  Her  voice  displayed  interest  but  noth- 
ing more.  Dick  grew  rather  red  and  hurried  on  with 
his  story. 

"  Well,  one  of  them,  old  Foster  the  maltster,  came 
to  your  husband  and — and  told  him  they  didn't  like 
the  Crusade  and  that  it  wouldn't  do."  He  paused, 
glanced  at  May  for  an  instant,  and  ended,  "  The 
seat's  not  safe,  you  know,  and — and  it  wants  money 
to  fight  it." 

A  silence  of  some  few  minutes  followed.  Dick 
fidgeted  with  his  hat,  while  May  looked  out  of  the 
window  on  to  the  river. 

"Why  do  you  come  and  tell  this  to  me?"  she 
asked  presently.  "  Supposing  it  was  all  true,  what 
could  I  do?" 

Dick's  resentment  got  the  better  of  him ;  he 
answered  hotly,  "  Well,  you  might  tell  him  that  it 
was  playing  it  pretty  low  down  on  us." 

"  Have  you  told  him  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have,  or  I  shouldn't  have  come  to  you. 
I  don't  mean  I  used  just  those  words,  but  I  made 
my  meaning  clear  enough." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  said  he  didn't  see  it  in  the  light  I  did." 

A  faint  smile  came  on  the  face  of  Mr.  Quisant£'s 
wife. 

"  But  you  could  make  him  see  it,"  urged  Dick. 
May  smiled  at  him  for  a  brief  moment  and  then 
looked  out  to  the  river  again. 


144  QUISANTfi. 

"  It'll  be  deuced  awkward  for  him  if  they  get  hold 
of  his  back  speeches,"  said  Dick  with  gloomy  satis- 
faction. 

"  Oh,  everybody's  back  speeches  are  what  you  call 
deuced  awkward."  A  moment  later  she  went  on, 
"  What  does  it  all  come  to,  after  all  ?  We  must  take 
things  as  they  are ;  we  mustn't  be  quixotic,  we 
mustn't  quarrel  with  our  bread-and-butter." 

Dick  looked  at  her  with  evident  surprise,  even 
with  dismay.  • 

"  You  think  it  all  right  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  It's  not  for  me  to  say.  Am  I  to  sit  in  judgment 
on  my  husband?  Anyhow  people  do  just  the  same 
thing  every  day.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do, 
Dick."  Just  on  the  last  words  her  voice  grew 
softer ;  he  might  have  caught  a  hint  of  entreaty, 
had  not  his  mind  been  fixed  on  his  own  wrongs  and 
the  betrayal  of  his  favourite  cause.  "  I'm  assuming 
that  what  you  say  is  true,"  she  added,  more  coldly 
again. 

When  Dick  left  her,  it  was  to  go  home  to  his  wife 
and  tell  her,  and  Mrs.  Gellatly  whom  he  found  with 
her,  that  he  did  not  understand  what  had  come  over 
May  Gaston — May  Quisante,  he  corrected  himself. 
Not  understanding,  he  proved  naturally  quite  un- 
able to  explain.  Lady  Richard  was  more  equal  to 
the  occasion. 

"  That  man's  simply  got  hold  of  her,"  she  said. 
"  She'll  think  black's  white  if  he  says  it  is.  Still  she 
must  see  that  he's  treating  you  shamefully." 

"She  didn't  seem  to  see  it,"  moaned  Dick  mourn- 


LEAD  US  NOT.  145 

fully.  Then  he  laughed  rather  bitterly  and  added, 
"  I  tell  you  what,  though.  I  think  that  old  aunt  of 
his  has  taken  his  measure  pretty  well." 

The  innate  nobility  which  underlay  Lady  Rich- 
ard's nature  showed  up  splendidly  at  this  moment; 
she  sympathised  heartily  with  Dick,  and  forbore  to 
remind  him  of  what  she  had  said  from  the  beginning, 
contenting  herself  with  remarking  that  for  her  part 
she  never  had  considered  and  did  not  now  consider 
Mr.  Quisant£  even  particularly  clever. 

"  He's  as  clever  as  the  deuce,"  said  Dick.  That 
conviction,  at  least,  he  need  not  surrender. 

"I  suppose,"  ventured  Mrs.  Gellatly,  "that's how 
he  convinces  Lady  May  that  he's  always  right." 

Dick  looked  at  her  with  a  touch  of  covert  con- 
tempt ;  clever  people  could  convince  the  intellect, 
but  there  were  instincts  of  honour,  of  loyalty,  and 
of  fidelity  which  no  arguments  should  be  able  to 
blunt  or  to  turn.  Here  was  the  thing  which,  vaguely 
felt,  had  so  puzzled  him  in  regard  to  May  Quisante; 
he  had  not  doubted  that  she  would  see  the  thing 
as  he  had  seen  it — as  Quisante  had  professed  himself 
unable  to  see  it. 

That  evening  Quisant£  brought  home  to  dinner 
the  gentleman  whom  Dick  Benyon  called  old  Foster 
the  maltster,  and  who  had  been  Mayor  of  Henstead 
three  several  times.  He  was  a  tall,  stout,  white- 
haired  old  man  with  a  shrewd  kindly  face,  dressed 
all  in  broadcloth,  showing  an  expanse  of  white  shirt- 
front  decorated  with  a  big  black  stud  and  a  very 
small  black  wisp  of  a  tie.  His  conversation  indi- 
10 


146  QUISANT£. 

cated  now  and  then  that  he  gave  thought  to  the 
other  world,  always  that  he  knew  the  ways  of  this. 
May  liked  him  in  spite  of  the  rather  ponderous  defer- 
ence he  showed  to  her  ;  with  Quisante,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  was  familiar,  seeming  to  say  that  he  could 
tell  the  younger  man  a  thing  or  two ;  Quisante's 
manner  did  nothing  to  contradict  this  implied  as- 
sumption. 

"  What  we  want,  sir,"  said  Foster,  "  is  to  have  you 
in  the  Government.  Once  you're  there,  you'll  sit  for 
Henstead  till  you  die  or  go  to  the  House  of  Lords. 
Nobody'll  be  able  to  touch  you.  But  this  time's 
critical,  very  critical.  They'll  have  a  strong  candi- 
date, and  they'll  do  all  they  know  to  keep  you  out. 
It's  not  a  time  for  offending  anybody."  He  turned 
to  May.  "  I  hope  your  ladyship  will  let  us  see  you 
very  often  in  the  town  ?  "  he  said. 

"When  the  election  begins,  I  shall  come  down 
with  my  husband  and  stay  all  the  time." 

"That's  right ;  you'll  be  worth  a  hundred  votes." 
He  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair.  "  Under 
God,"  he  said,  "  we  ought  to  be  safe.  Your  speech 
had  an  excellent  effect ;  I  sent  it  to  Middleton, 
and  Dunn,  and  Japhet  Williams,  and  when  I  met 
'em  at  the  Council,  they  were  all  most  pleasant 
about  it.  I  think  you've  undone  all  the  bad  im- 
pression." 

"  I  only  said  what  I  thought,"  observed  Quisante\ 

"Yes,  yes,  just  so;  oh,  just  so,  of  course."  His 
tone  was  not  in  the  least  ironical,  but  a  little  hur- 
ried, as  though,  having  put  the  thing  in  a  way  that 


LEAD  US  NOT.  147 

might  sound  ambiguous,  he  hastened  to  prevent 
any  possible  misapprehension.  May  had  looked  for 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  but  his  eye  was  guilty  of  no 
such  frivolity. 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  Mr.  Japhet  Williams  the 
other  day,"  said  Quisante\  "  He  was  annoyed  at  a 
vote  I  gave  in  Committee  on  the  Truck  Act.  You 
know  I  voted  against  the  Government  once,  in 
favour  of  what  I  thought  fairer  treatment  of  the 
men ;  not  that  any  real  hardship  on  the  employer 
was  involved." 

"  Just  so,  just  so,"  said  Mr.  Foster.  "  That's  the 
worst  of  Japhet.  He  doesn't  look  at  the  matter  in  a 
broad  way.  But  I've  put  that  all  right,  sir.  I  met 
him  on  the  Cemetery  Board,  and  walked  home  with 
him,  and  I  said,  '  Look  here  Japhet,  that  vote  of 
Mr.  Quisantd's  '11  be  worth  fifty  votes  among  the 
men.'  '  I  don't  care  for  that,'  he  said  ;  '  I'm  against 
interference.'  'So  am  I,'  I  told  him  ;  'but  where's 
the  harm  ?  Mr.  Quisant£  must  have  his  own  opin- 
ion here  and  there — that  comes  of  having  a  clever 
man — but  (I  said)  the  Government  had  a  hundred 
majority  there,  and  Mr.  Quisant£  knew  it.'  Well, 
he  saw  that,  and  admitted  that  he'd  been  wrong  to 
make  a  fuss  about  it." 

Quisante"  nodded  grave  appreciation.  May  gave 
a  little  laugh,  and  suddenly  poured  out  a  glass  of 
claret  for  Mr.  Foster  ;  turning,  he  found  her  eyes 
on  his  face,  sparkling  with  amusement.  His  own 
large  features  relaxed  into  a  slow  smile  ;  something 
like  the  twinkle  was  to  be  detected  now. 


i4s  QUISANT£. 

"  Nothing's  the  worse  for  a  bit  of  putting,  is  it  ?  " 
he  said,  and  drank  his  wine  at  a  gulp. 

"  You're  a  diplomatist,  Mr.  Foster,"  said  she. 

"  Not  to  the  detriment  of  truth ;  I  assure  you  I 
don't  sacrifice  that,"  he  replied,  with  renewed  gravity 
and  an  apparently  perfect  sincerity. 

May  was  sorry  when  he  took  his  leave,  partly  for 
the  temporary  loss  of  a  study  which  amused  her, 
more  because  his  departure  brought  the  time  for 
telling  Quisant£  of  Dick  Benyon's  visit.  She  djd 
not  want  to  tell  him  and  anticipated  no  result,  yet 
she  felt  herself  bound  to  let  him  know  about  it. 
To  this  mind  her  eighteen  months  of  marriage  had 
brought  her.  In  the  quite  early  days,  while  not 
blind  to  the  way  he  looked  at  things  when  left  to 
himself,  she  had  been  eager  to  show  him  how  she 
looked  at  them,  and,  with  the  memory  of  her  tri- 
umphs during  their  engagement,  very  sanguine 
that  she  would  be  able  always  to  convert  him 
from  his  view  to  hers,  to  open  his  eyes  and  show 
him  the  truth  as  it  seemed  to  her.  This  hopeful 
mood  she  had  for  nearly  a  year  past  been  gradually 
abandoning.  She  had  once  asked  Morewood  whether 
people  must  always  remain  what  they  were ;  now 
she  inclined  to  answer  yes  to  her  own  question. 
But  she  could  not  convince  herself  so  thoroughly 
as  to  feel  absolved  from  the  duty  of  trying  to  prove 
that  the  true  answer  was  no.  She  must  offer  her 
husband  every  chance  still,  she  must  not  acquiesce, 
she  must  not  give  up  the  game  yet ;  some  day  she 
might  (she  smiled  at  herself  here)  awake  an  impulse 


LEAD  US  NOT.  149 

or  happen  on  a  moment  so  great  as  really  to  influ- 
ence, to  change,  and  to  mould  him.  But  she  had 
come  to  hate  this  duty ;  she  would  rather  have  left 
things  alone  ;  as  a  simple  matter  of  inclination,  she 
wished  that  she  felt  free  to  sit  and  smile  at  Quisante 
as  she  had  at  old  Foster  the  maltster.  She  could 
not ;  Foster  was  not  part  of  her.  life,  near  and 
close  to  her,  her  chosen  husband,  the  father  of  her 
child.  Unless  she  clung  to  her  effort,  and  to  her 
paradoxical  much-disappointed  hope,  her  life  and 
the  thought  of  what  she  had  done  with  it  would 
become  unendurable.  Dick  and  his  wife  had  not 
quite  understood  what  had  come  over  her. 

If  Mr.  Foster  was  diplomatic,  so  was  she  ;  she 
set  before  her  husband  neither  Dick's  complaints 
nor  her  own  misgivings  in  their  crudity  ;  she  started 
by  asking  how  his  change  of  front  would  affect 
people  and  instanced  Dick  and  herself  only  as  ex- 
amples of  how  the  thing  might  strike  certain  minds. 
She  must  feed  him  with  the  milk  of  rectitude,  for  its 
strong  meat  his  stomach  was  hopelessly  unready. 
But  he  was  suspicious,  and  insisted  on  hearing  what 
Dick  Benyon  had  said  ;  so  she  told  him  pretty  accu- 
rately. His  answer  was  a  long  disquisition  on  the 
political  situation,  to  which  she  listened  with  the 
same  faint  smile  with  which  she  had  heard  Dick 
himself;  at  last  he  roundly  stigmatised  the  Crusade 
as  a  visionary  and  impracticable  scheme. 

"  I  stuck  to  it  as  long  as  I  could,"  he  said,  "  but 
you  wouldn't  have  me  risk  everything  for  it  ?  " 

"  Or  even  anything?  "  she  asked. 


150  QUISANT& 

The  question  was  a  spark  to  him.  Gladly  leaving 
the  immediate  question,  he  dilated  on  all  that  the 
coming  contest  meant  to  him,  how  victory  would 
assure  his  prospects,  how  defeat  might  leave  him 
hopelessly  out  in  the  cold,  how  it  would  be  absurd 
to  lose  all  that  he  was  going  to  accomplish  for  the 
sake  of  a  hasty  promise  and  a  cause  that  he  had 
come  to  disbelieve  in.  "  When  did  you  come  to 
disbelieve  in  it  ?  "  was  the  question  in  her  heart ;  he 
saw  it  in  her  eyes. 

"  It's  a  little  hard  to  have  to  explain  everything 
in  private  as  well  as  in  public,"  he  complained. 
"And  my  head's  fit  to  split." 

"  Don't  trouble  any  more  about  it ;  only  I  thought 
I'd  better  tell  you  what  Dick  said."  She  came  to 
him  as  he  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  put  her  hand  on 
his  brow.  He  was  tired,  not  only  looking  tired  ; 
his  head  did  ache,  she  had  no  doubt  ;  to  turn  these 
afflictions  to  account  had  always  been  his  way  ;  so 
long  ago  as  the  Imperial  League  banquet  she  re- 
membered it.  "  Go  to  bed,"  she  said.  "  I'll  write  a 
few  letters  first." 

"  I  want  you  to  understand  me,"  he  said.  He  loved 
her  and  she  had  made  him  uneasy  ;  her  good  opinion 
was  very  necessary  to  his  happiness. 

"  I  do  understand  you,"  she  said,  and  persuaded 
him  to  go  upstairs,  while  she  sat  down  by  the  fire, 
forgetful  apparently  of  the  excuse  that  she  had 
made  for  lingering. 

Did  she  repent?  That  question  came  often  into 
her  mind.  She  well  might,  for  one  of  the  great  hopes 


LEAD  US  NOT.  151 

with  which  she  had  married  was  quite  gone  by  now. 
There  was  no  longer  any  possibility  of  maintaining 
that  the  faults  were  of  manner  only,  no  longer  any 
reasonable  expectation  that  she  would  be  able 
to  banish  or  materially  to  diminish  them.  It  was 
for  better  for  worse  with  a  vengeance  then.  But 
did  she  repent  ?  There  were  times  when  she  wept, 
times  when  she  shuddered,  times  when  she  scorned, 
even  times  when  she  hated.  But  had  she  ever  so 
felt  as  to  be  confident  that  if  Omnipotence  had 
offered  to  undo  the  past,  she  would  have  had  the 
past  undone  ?  There  had  perhaps  been  one  such 
occasion  quite  early  in  the  marriage,  and  the  woe  of 
it  had  been  terrible  ;  but  it  was  followed  almost 
immediately  by  a  "  moment,"  by  an  inspired  out- 
break of  his  over  some  case  in  the  paper,  by  a  vow 
to  see  an  injustice  remedied,  a  ceaseless,  unsparing, 
unpaid  month's  work  to  that  end,  a  triumph  over 
wrong  and  prejudice  in  the  cause  of  a  helpless 
woman.  He  had  nearly  killed  himself  over  it,  the 
doctor  said,  and  May  had  watched  by  his  bed,  with- 
out tears,  but  with  a  conviction  that  if  he  died  she 
must  die  also  ;  because  it  seemed  as  though  he  had 
faced  death  rather  than  her  condemnation.  That 
was  not  the  truth  of  it,  of  course,  but  she  and 
he  between  them  had  made  it  seem  the  truth  to 
her. 

And  now,  with  all  the  meanness  of  this  aban- 
donment of  his  friends,  with  all  this  fawning  on  the 
moneyed  Wesleyans  before  her  eyes,  she  could  not 
declare  that  she  repented,  lest  he,  waking  again  to 


152  QUISANT£. 

greatness,  should  plunge  her  again  into  the  depths 
of  abasement.  But  that  the  same  man  should  be 
great  and  mean,  and  should  escape  arraignment  for 
his  meanness  by  making  play  with  his  headache ! 
She  smiled  now  to  remember  how  great  the  mere 
faults  of  manner  had  once  seemed  to  her  girlish  fas- 
tidiousness ;  they  were  small  to  her  now  ;  her  teeth 
were  set  on  edge  indeed,  but  by  a  sharper  sourness 
than  lay  in  them.  To  the  faults  of  manner  she  had 
grown  to  some  extent  accustomed ;  she  had  become 
an  adept  in  covering  and  excusing  them.  To-day, 
in  her  interview  with  Dick  Benyon,  she  had  turned 
alike  art  on  to  the  other  faults.  A  new  thought  and 
a  new  apprehension  came  into  her  mind. 

"  If  I  go  on  defending  him,"  she  murmured, 
"shall  I  end  by  getting  like  him  and  really  think  it 
all  right  ?  I  wonder  !  "  For  it  was  difficult  not  to 
identify  herself  with  her  cause,  and  he  was  now  her 
cause.  Who  asks  a  lawyer  to  disbelieve  his  own 
client,  who  asks  a  citizen  to  be  extreme  to  mark 
what  is  done  amiss  in  his  country's  quarrel  ? 

"  Now  if  the  Dean  did  chance  to  do  anything 
wrong,  Mrs.  Baxter  simply  wouldn't  see  that  it  was 
wrong,"  she  meditated.  "  Neither  would  Amy 
Benyon,  if  Dick  did.  I  see  it's  wrong  and  yet 
defend  it.  I'm  the  wrong  sort  of  woman  to  have 
married  Alexander." 

Yes,  from  that  point  of  view,  undoubtedly.  But 
there  was  another.  What  would  Mrs.  Baxter  or  Lady 
Richard  have  made  of  him  at  the  times  when  he 
woke  to  greatness  ?  Dick  had  appreciated  him 


LEAD  US  NOT.  153 

then ;  Dick's  wife  never  had  ;  she  saw  only  the 
worst.  Well,  it  was  plain  to  see.  May  saw  it  so 
plain  that  night  that  she  sat  where  she  was  till  the 
night  was  old  because,  if  she  went  upstairs,  she 
might  find  him  there.  And  she  fell  to  wishing  that 
the  seat  at  Henstead  was  not  shaky  ;  so  much  hung 
on  it,  her  hopes  for  him  as  well  as  his  own  hopes, 
her  passionate  interest  in  him  as  well  as  his  ambi- 
tion. Nay,  she  had  a  feeling  or  a  fear  that  more 
still  hung  on  it.  Pondering  there  alone  in  the 
night,  assessing  her  opinion  and  reviewing  her 
knowledge  of  him,  she  told  herself  that  there  was 
hardly  anything  that  he  would  not  do  sooner  than 
lose  the  seat.  So  that  she  dreaded  the  struggle  for 
the  strain  it  might  put  on  him  ;  strains  of  that 
sort  she  knew  now  that  he  was  not  able  to  bear. 
"  Lead  us  not  into  temptation,"  was  the  prayer 
which  must  be  on  her  lips  for  him  ;  if  that  were  not 
answered,  he  was  well-nigh  past  praying  for  alto- 
gether. For  with  temptation  came  his  blindness, 
and  he  no  longer  saw  the  thing  that  tempted  him 
for  what  it  was.  Oh,  and  what  a  fool  she  had  been 
to  think  that  she  could  make  him  see ! 

At  last  she  went  upstairs,  slowly  and  reluctantly. 
Passing  her  own  door,  she  mounted  again  to  the 
baby's  nursery,  and  entered  softly.  All  was  peace  ; 
both  baby  and  nurse  slept.  May  was  smiling  as 
she  came  down  the  stairs  ;  she  murmured,  "  Gas- 
ton  ! ",  mimicking  the  satisfied  tones  of  old  Aunt 
Maria's  voice.  Then  she  entered  her  own  room  ; 
Quisante's  bed  was  empty.  A  sense  of  great  relief 


154  QUISANT£. 

rose  in  her,  but  she  went  out  again  and  softly 
turned  the  handle  of  his  dressing-room  door.  He 
had  elected  to  sleep  there,  as  he  often  did.  The 
light  was  still  high ;  a  book  lay  open  by  him  on  the 
bed.  He  was  in  deep  sleep,  looking  very  pale,  very 
tired,  very  peaceful.  She  stood  looking  at  him  for  a 
moment ;  again  she  smiled  as  she  stole  forward  and 
peeped  at  the  book.  It  was  a  work  on  Bimetallism. 
Did  he  mean  to  win  Henstead  with  that  ?  Oh,  no  ; 
he  meant  to  preach  the  Majesty  of  the  British  Sov- 
ereign, King  of  coins,  good  tender  from  China  to 
Peru.  She  imagined  him  making  some  fine  rhetoric 
out  of  it. 

He  breathed  gently  and  regularly  ;  for  once 
he  rested,  he  really  rested  from  his  unresting  ef- 
forts, from  the  cruel  race  he  ran ;  he  was  for  once 
free  from  all  the  thoughts  of  his  brain,  all  the  de- 
vices of  his  resourceful,  unbaffled,  unhesitating 
mind.  With  a  sigh  she  turned  away  and  lowered 
the  light,  that  in  darkness  he  might  sleep  more 
easily.  In  the  darkness  she  stood  a  minute  longer, 
seeing  now  only  the  dim  outline  of  his  body  on  the 
bed  ;  again  the  smile  came,  but  her  lips  moved  to 
murmur  softly,  "  Lead  us  not  into  temptation." 
And  still  murmuring  the  only  prayer  that  might 
serve  him,  still  smiling  that  it  was  the  only  prayer 
she  could  pray  for  her  chosen  husband,  she  left 
Quisante  to  his  rest. 


CHAPTER  X. 

PRACTICAL  POLITICS. 

WHILE  Alexander  Quisant£  increased  in  promise 
and  prominence,  Weston  Marchmont  had  begun  to 
cause  some  anxiety  to  his  best  friends.  His  pas- 
sion for  ultimates  grew  upon  him;  sometimes  it 
seemed  as  though  he  would  put  up  with  nothing  less. 
At  the  same  time  a  personal  fastidiousness  and 
a  social  exclusiveness,  always  to  a  certain  extent 
characteristic  of  the  man,  gathered  greater  dominion 
over  him.  He  was  not  civil  to  the  people  towards 
whom  civility  would  be  useful,  and  he  refused  to 
shut  his  eyes  to  the  logical  defects  or  moral  short- 
comings in  the  measures  promoted  by  his  party. 
His  abilities  were  still  conceded  in  ample  terms,  his 
charm  still  handsomely  and  sincerely  acknowledged. 
But  a  suspicion  gradually  got  about  that  he  was 
impracticable,  that  he  had  a  perverse  affection  for 
unpopular  causes,  for  reasons  of  approval  or  disap- 
proval that  did  not  occur  to  the  world  at  large,  for 
having  a  private  point  of  view  of  his  own,  differen- 
tiated from  the  common  view  by  distinctions  as  un- 
yielding as  to  the  ordinary  eye  they  were  minute. 
The  man  who  begins  merely  by  being  uncompro- 
mising as  to  his  own  convictions  may  end  in  finding 


156  QUISANT£. 

an  actual  pleasure  in  disagreeing  with  those  of 
others.  Some  such  development  was,  according  to 
acute  observers,  taking  place  in  Marchmont  ;  if  the 
tendency  became  his  master,  farewell  to  the  high 
career  to  which  he  had  appeared  to  be  destined. 
Plain  men  would  call  him  finicking,  and  practical 
men  would  think  it  impossible  to  work  with  him. 
No  impression  is  more  damning  about  a  man  en- 
gaged in  public  life  ;  the  Whips  have  to  put  a 
query  to  his  name,  and  he  cannot  be  trusted  to  con- 
fine his  revolts  to  such  occasions  as  those  on  which 
Mr.  Foster  of  Henstead  thought  an  exhibition  of 
independence  a  venial  sin,  or  in  certain  circum- 
stances a  prudent  act. 

"The  fact  is,"  Morewood  said  to  Marchmont 
once,  when  they  had  been  talking  over  his  various 
positions  and  opinions, "  if  you  want  to  lead  ordinary 
people,  you  must  keep  on  roads  that  ordinary 
people  can  travel,  roads  broad  enough  for  ihegrande 
armte.  You  may  take  them  quicker  or  slower,  you 
may  lead  them  downhill  or  get  them  to  follow  you 
uphill,  but  you  must  keep  to  the  road.  A  bye-path 
is  all  right  and  charming  for  yourself,  for  a  t$te-h- 
t$te,  or  a  small  party  of  friends,  but  you  don't  take 
an  army-corps  along  it." 

The  unusual  length  and  the  oratorical  character 
of  this  warning  were  strong  evidence  of  the  painter's 
feelings.  Marchmont  nodded  a  grave  and  troubled 
assent. 

"  Still  if  I  see  the  thing  one  way,  I  can't  act  as  if 
I  saw  it  the  other." 


PRACTICAL  POLITICS.  157 

"  You  mustn't  see  it  one  way,"  said  Morewood 
irritably.  "  If  you  must  be  the  slave  of  your  con- 
science, hang  it,  you  needn't  be  of  your  intellect. 
Ask  the  Dean  there."  (The  Dean,  who  had  been 
drinking  his  port  in  thoughtful  peace,  started  a 
little.)  "  He'll  tell  you  that  belief  is  largely  or 
altogether — which  is  it  ? — an  affair  of  the  will." 

The  Dean  was  prudent ;  he  smiled  and  finished 
his  glass. 

"  If  I  chose  to  believe  in  the  Crusade,  I  could," 
Morewood  went  on  with  a  satirical  smile.  "  Or 
with  an  adequate  effort  I  could  think  Jimmy 
Benyon  brilliant,  or  Fred  Wentworth  wise,  or 
Alexander  Quisante"  honest.  That's  it,  eh,  Mr. 
Dean?  " 

"  Well,  the  ordinary  view  may  be  appreciated, 
even  if  it's  not  entirely  embraced,"  said  the  Dean 
diplomatically.  "The  points  of  agreement  are 
usually  much  more  important,  for  practice  at  all 
events,  than  those  of  difference." 

"In  fact — shut  one  eye  and  go  ahead?"  asked 
Marchmont. 

"  Oh,  shut  'em  both  and  walk  by  the  sound  of  the 
feet  and  the  cheering." 

"  Don't  say  more  than  you  mean,  Mr.  Morewood," 
the  Dean  advised  mildly. 

"  I  know  what  he  means,"  said  Marchmont. 
"  And,  yes,  I  rather  wish  I  could  do  it." 

Morewood  began  to  instance  the  great  men  who 
had  done  it,  including  in  his  list  many  whom  the 
common  opinion  that  he  praised  would  not  have 


158  QUISANT£. 

characterised  at  all  in  the  same  way.  At  each  name 
Marchmont  denied  either  the  greatness  or  the  pli- 
ancy. The  Dean  could  see  with  what  ardour  he 
maintained  his  position  ;  in  spite  of  the  unvarying 
suavity  of  his  manner  there  was  something  naturally 
repulsive  to  him  in  yielding  a  hair's  breadth  in 
deference  to  the  wishes  or  the  weaknesses  of  a  ma- 
jority. 

"Your  independence  is  really  half  a  prejudice,'' 
said  the  Dean  at  the  end.  "You're  like  a  man  who 
can't  get  a  cab  and  misses  his  appointment  sooner 
than  ride  in  a  'bus." 

"  I  suppose  so — and  I'm  much  obliged  to  you. 
But — well,  you  can  argue  against  what  a  man  does, 
but  what's  the  use  arguing  against  what  he  is?" 

"  No ;  he  himself's  the  only  man  who  can  do 
that,"  said  the  Dean,  but  he  knew  as  well  as  March- 
mont himself  that  such  an  argument  would  never 
be  victorious.  The  will  to  change  was  wanting; 
Marchmont  might  deplore  what  he  lost  by  being 
what  he  was,  and  at  times  he  felt  very  sore  about 
it ;  but  as  a  matter  of  taste  he  liked  himself  just  as 
he  was,  even  as  he  liked  the  few  people  in  whom  he 
found  some  of  the  same  flavour  and  the  same  bent 
of  mind. 

His  character  was  knit  consistently  all  through; 
whether  he  dealt  with  public  affairs  or  ordered  his 
own  life  the  same  line  of  conduct  was  followed.  If 
he  could  not  have  things  as  he  wanted  them  or  do 
them  as  he  chose,  he  would  not  have  them  or  do  them 
at  all.  He  was  not  modifiable.  For  example,  hav- 


PRACTICAL  POLITICS.  159 

ing  failed  to  win  May  Gaston,  he  had  no  thought  of 
trying  for  Fanny,  and  this  not  (as  Lady  Richard  had 
thought  likely)  because  he  objected  to  any  sort  of 
connection  with  Quisant6 ;  that  point  of  view  did 
not  occur  to  him  ;  it  was  merely  because  Fanny  was 
not  May,  and  May  was  what  he  had  wanted  and  did 
want.  Fanny  he  left  to  the  gradual,  uphill,  but 
probably  finally  successful,  wooing  of  Jimmy  Ben- 
yon.  Even  with  regard  to  May  herself  he  very 
nearly  achieved  consistency.  His  promise  to  be 
often  at  Quisante"'s  house  had  been  flagrantly  and 
conspicuously  broken.  Quisante"  had  pressed  him 
often;  on  the  three  occasions  on  which  he  had  called 
May  had  let  him  see  how  gladly  she  would  welcome 
him  more  often.  He  had  not  gone  more  often.  He 
was  not  sulking,  for  his  temper  was  not  touched ; 
but  he  held  aloof  because  it  was  not  to  his  taste  to 
go  under  existing  circumstances.  He  knew  that  he 
gave  pain  to  her  and  regretted  the  pain,  but  he 
could  not  go,  any  more  than  he  could  give  a  vote 
because  his  good  friend  Constantine  Blair,  the  Whip, 
was  very  much  put  out  when  he  wouldn't.  "  He 
wants  a  party  all  to  himself,"  said  Constantine 
angrily.  "And  then  I'm  hanged  if  he'd  vote 
with  it ! " 

Some  of  the  things  here  indicated  May  Quisant£ 
read  about  him  in  the  papers,  some  Quisant£  brought 
home  from  the  House,  some  she  heard  from  friends 
or  divined  for  herself ;  and  her  heart  went  out  to 
Marchmont  under  the  cunning  lure  of  contrast. 
The  Dissolution  drew  near  now,  and  political  con- 


160  QUISANT£. 

ferences,  schemes,  and  manoeuvres  were  the  order 
of  the  day  in  Grosvenor  Road  and  in  many  other 
houses  which  she  frequented.  Perhaps  she  exag- 
gerated what  she  disliked,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that 
everybody,  her  husband  of  course  among  the  first, 
was  carefully  considering  how  many  of  his  previous 
utterances  and  how  much  of  his  existing  opinions 
he  might  conveniently,  and  could  plausibly,  disclaim 
and  suppress,  and  on  the  other  hand  to  what  extent 
it  might  be  expedient,  and  would  not  be  too  start- 
ling, to  copy  and  advocate  utterances  and  opinions 
which  were  in  apparent  conflict  therewith.  This, 
she  was  told,  was  practical  politics.  Hence  her  im- 
pulse of  longing  to  renew  friendship  and  intimacy 
with  a  man  who  was  dubbed  unpractical.  The 
change  would  be  pleasant,  and,  if  she  found  some- 
thing to  laugh  at,  she  would  find  something  to  ad- 
mire, just  as  if  in  the  practical  politicians  she  found 
something  to  frown  at,  she  contrived  to  find  also 
much  matter  for  legitimate  mirth.  She  had  begun 
by  thinking  that  a  gift  of  humour  would  make  her 
married  life  harder ;  she  was  conscious  now  that 
without  that  form  of  insight  it  would  be  utterly 
intolerable. 

"  I  hear  you're  behaving  very  badly,"  she  said  to 
Marchmont,  when  he  came  in  obedience  to  her  in- 
vitation. "  I  was  talking  to  Mr.  Blair  about  you, 
and  he  had  no  words  strong  enough  to  denounce 
you  in." 

"Yes,  it's  atrocious.  I'm  thinking  for  myself," 
he  said  with  a  shrug,  as  he  sat  down. 


PRACTICAL  POLITICS.  161 

"  For  yourself  instead  of  about  yourself !  With 
a  Dissolution  coming  too  !  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  safe  enough.  I'm  a  martyr  without  a 
stake." 

"  Well,  really,  you're  refreshing.  I  wish  we  were 
safe,  and  hadn't  got  to  make  ourselves  safe  ;  I  don't 
think  it's  a  very  elevating  process."  She  paused  a 
moment  and  then  added,  "  I  ought  to  apologise  for 
bringing  you  into  such  an  atmosphere  of  it.  We 
conspire  here  like  Fenians  or  Women  Suffragists, 
and  I  know  how  much  you  hate  it  all." 

"  And  you?  "  he  asked  briefly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  as  the  clerk  hates  his  desk  or  a  girl  her 
practising.  The  duties  of  life,  you  know." 

She  had  received  him  in  an  exuberance  of  spirits, 
much  as  though  she  were  the  school-girl  she  spoke 
of  and  he  a  pleasant  visitor  from  the  outside  world. 
When  she  reproached  him  for  not  having  come  be- 
fore, it  was  only  evidence  of  her  pleasure  that  he 
had  come  now  ;  in  the  days  when  he  saw  her  often 
and  was  always  at  her  call,  there  had  been  no  such 
joy  as  this.  Yet  he  had  hesitated  to  add  one  more 
item  to  the  score  of  simple  perversity,  of  not  want- 
ing when  you  can  have  and  vice  versd  ;  what  she  said 
about  the  atmosphere  she  lived  in  showed  him  that 
his  hesitation  had  been  right. 

"  And  I  know  you  didn't  want  to  come,"  she  went 
on.  "  You've  only  come  out  of  politeness,  no,  I  mean 
out  of  kindness." 

"  There  was  an  old  invitation.    An  old  promise 

too  ?     Wasn't  there  ?  " 
ii 


162  QUISANT£. 

"  One  never  withdrawn,  the  other  terribly  broken," 
she  laughed.  "  You've  heard  of  our  difference  with 
poor  Dick  Benyon?" 

"  Of  your  husband's  ? "  May  smiled  slightly. 
"  Yes,  I  have.  Quisante"'s  quite  right  now,  you 
know;  the  only  pity  is  that  he  didn't  see  it  sooner." 

"  Dick's  not  so  charitable  as  you.  He  suspects 
our  sincerity." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  say  again 
"  Your  husband's  ?  "  but  looking  at  her  he  found  her 
eyes  full  of  fun,  and  began  to  laugh  himself. 

"  I  find  it  absolutely  the  only  way,"  May  ex- 
plained. "  I  can't  draw  distinctions.  Mrs.  Baxter, 
now,  says 'Our  Cathedral'  but  '  My  drawing-room.' 
Amy  Benyon  says  '  Our  relations,'  when  she  means 
hers  and  '  Dick's  relations '  when  she  means  his. 
I've  quite  given  up  the  attempt  to  discriminate  ;  a 
thorough-going  identification  of  husband  and  wife  is 
the  only  thing.  The  We  matrimonial  must  be  as 
universal  as  the  We  editorial." 

"  The  theory  is  far-reaching,  if  you  apply  it  to 
qualities." 

"  Yes,  I  don't  quite  know  how  far." 

"  Alliance  becomes  union,  and  union  leads  to 
fusion?" 

"  And  fusion  leads  where  ?  " 

He  escaped  answering  or  covered  inability  to  an- 
swer with  a  shrug. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  don't  please  Mr.  Blair,"  she  said. 

"  Really  I  don't  think  I  care  so  very  much.  I 
used  to  be  ambitious,  but —  " 


PRACTICAL  POLITICS.  163 

"  Oh,  don't  tell  me  it's  not  worth  while  being 
ambitious.  It's  all  I've  got." 

She  had  spoken  on  a  hasty  unthinking  impulse  ; 
she  grew  a  little  red  and  laughed  rather  nervously 
when  she  found  what  she  had  said.  His  face  did 
not  change,  his  voice  was  quite  unmoved,  as  he  said, 
smiling,  "  In  that  case,  no  doubt,  it  is  worth  while." 

She  wanted  to  applaud  his  excellent  manners ; 
at  the  same  time  they  annoyed  her  rather.  She  had 
been  indiscreet  no  doubt,  but  her  indiscretion  might, 
if  he  had  liked,  have  led  the  way  to  matters  of  in- 
terest,  to  that  opening  of  the  heart  to  somebody  for 
which  she  was  pining.  His  polite  care  not  to  em- 
barrass her  shut  the  door. 

"  I  mean,  just  now,"  she  resumed, "  while  our  seat's 
so  shaky,  you  know." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  he  half-absently. 

She  leant  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  at  him. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  "  you  look  as  if  you  did  care, 
about  Mr.  Blair  or  about  something  else.  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  that  I  don't  agree  in  the  least  with  the 
criticisms  on  you."  She  leant  forward,  asking  in  a 
lower  voice,  "  Do  they  hurt  you  ?" 

"  Not  much.  A  man  likes  to  succeed,  but  there 
are  things  I  like  better." 

"  Yes.  Well,  there's  nothing  we — we — like  bet- 
ter, Mr.  Marchmont." 

He  rose  and  stood  on  the  hearth  ;  her  eyes  were 
upturned  to  his  in  a  steady  gaze. 

"You  were  always  very  frank,  weren't  you?" 
he  asked,  looking  down  and  smiling.  "  Well, 


164  QUISANT£. 

you've  known  what  you  say  for  along  while,  haven't 
you?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  even  before — Oh,  ever  since  the  very 
beginning,  you  know.  There  now !  We've  left 
'  We  '  and  got  to  '  I,'  and  whenever  that  happens  I 
say  something  I  oughtn't  to.  But  one  must  some- 
times. I  believe  I  could  serve  anybody  to  the  death 
if  only  I  were  allowed  to  speak  my  whole  mind 
about  him  once  a  week.  But  it's  disloyal,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  is." 

She  laughed.  "  That's  what  Mr.  Blair  means," 
she  said.  "  You  must  have  seen  that  I  wanted  you 
to  say  '  No,  it  isn't.'  Perhaps  you  would  have  to 
anybody  else.  You  were  always  one  of  the  people 
who  attributed  all  the  virtues  to  me.  You  made  it 
so  hard  for  me  to  be  good.  I  loathed  the  girl  you 
thought  I  was.  One  comfort  is  that  as  I  am  now — ". 
Suddenly  her  eyes  met  his  ;  she  stopped.  "  We'd 
better  talk  about  '  we '  again,"  she  ended  with  a 
laugh. 

"  Whom  do  you  talk  to  ?  "  he  asked  curiously. 

"  About  4  we  '  ?  I  talk  to  Miss  Quisante — You've 
met  her?  She's  never  tired  of  talking  about  '  we  ' 
— though  she  doesn't  like  us  ;  but  she  doesn't  care 
a  bit  to  talk  about  me." 

"  Have  a  confidante,"  he  suggested  gravely. 

"Yes — like  Tilburina.     Who  shall  I  have?  " 

A  run  through  their  acquaintance  suggested  only 
Mrs.  Gellatly,  and  her  May  rejected  as  being  too 
suitable,  too  much  the  traditional  confidante.  "  I 


PRACTICAL  POLITICS.  165 

should  like  one  who  might  possibly  have  something 
to  tell  me  in  return,  and  she  never  could,"  she 
said. 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the  man 
of  whom  they  had  spoken,  Constantine  Blair.  He 
came  with  important  and,  as  he  clearly  considered, 
disquieting  news  for  Quisante.  Sir  Winterton 
Mildmay,  one  of  the  richest  landowners  near 
Henstead,  who  had  been  at  loggerheads  with  his 
party,  had  made  up  the  quarrel  and  consented  to 
stand  in  opposition  to  Quisant£.  "  I  thought  the 
sooner  your  husband  knew  the  better,"  said  Con- 
stantine with  a  very  grave  face.  "  It  makes  a 
difference,  you  see.  We  only  beat  young  Fortescue, 
a  stranger  in  the  town,  by  two  hundred,  and  they 
had  four  hundred  the  time  before."  He  paused 
and  added,  "  Lady  Mildmay's  very  much  liked  in 
the  town." 

"  Come,  Blair,  I'm  sure  we  shan't  be  worse  off  in 
that  respect  anyhow,"  said  Marchmont,  laughing. 

"  Oh,  I've  nothing  to  do  with  you,  I've  given 
you  up,"  cried  Blair,  twisting  his  good-humoured 
face  into  a  fierce  scowl.  "  He's  a  man  with  convic- 
tions, Lady  May  ;  he's  no  sort  of  use  to  me." 

Blair  had  convictions  himself,  but  he  and  every 
body  else  took  them  so  much  for  granted  that  they 
might  almost  as  well  not  have  existed  ;  they  were 
polite  cdnvictions  too,  ready  to  give  place  not  only 
to  one  another  but  even  to  circumstances,  and 
waiting  quite  patiently  their  turn  to  be  realised. 
He  expected  to  be  met  in  a  like  spirit,  conceiving 


166  QUISANT£. 

that  the  true  function  of  a  man's  own  opinions  is  to 
decide  which  party  he  shall  belong  to ;  with  that 
decision  their  duty  was  ended.  He  possessed  an 
extremely  cordial  manner,  dressed  perfectly,  and 
never  forgot  anybody.  He  enjoyed  his  work  im- 
mensely, quarrelling  with  nothing  in  it  save  that  it 
often  prevented  him  from  being  present  at  the  first 
performances  of  new  plays.  May  thought  him 
pleasant,  but  did  not  welcome  his  appearance  to- 
day ;  he  smacked  too  strongly  of  those  politics 
distinctively  practical  from  which  her  talk  with 
Marchmont  had  afforded  a  temporary  escape. 

"  I  know  Mildmay,"  said  Marchmont.  "  He's  a 
capital  fellow  and,  I  should  think,  very  popular, 
He'll  give  you  a  bit  of  a  run." 

"  From  what  I  hear  he'll  run  us  very  close 
indeed,"  said  Blair  with  an  anxious  look.  "  How- 
ever I've  unlimited  confidence  in  your  husband, 
Lady  May.  If  Mildmay  is  to  be  beaten  Quisante'll 
beat  him  ;  if  there  is  a  weak  spot  he'll  find  it  out." 

May  smiled  faintly ;  what  Blair  said  was  so  true. 

"  Perhaps,"  smiled  Marchmont,  "you'll  be  able  to 
ferret  out  something  about  him." 

May  turned  to  him  and  said  with  a  touch  of 
sharpness,  "  We  shall  fight  fairly  anyhow,  I  hope." 
She  saw  that  she  surprised  him  and  went  on  with  a 
laugh,  "You  shouldn't  talk  as  if  we  were  going  to 
set  detectives  on  him  and  use  their  information  for 
electioneering." 

"  Well,  hardly,"  said  Constantine  Blair.  "  Still, 
mind  you,  a  constituency  has  a  right  to  know  that 


PRACTICAL  POLITICS.  167 

its  member  is  an  honourable  and  equitable  man  as 
well  as  a  supporter  of  the  principles  it  favours." 

"  Excellently  well  put,  Blair,"  said  Marchmont 
languidly.  "Is  it  your  own  ?" 

"  No  !  "  said  May,  with  a  sudden  laugh.  "  I  be- 
lieve it's  my  husband's." 

Blair  looked  a  little  put  out,  but  his  good-humour 
triumphed.  "  I'm  not  above  borrowing  from  my 
betters,"  he  said.  "  Quisante  did  say  something 
of  the  sort  to  me,  but  how  in  the  world  did  you 
know  ?  Has  he  said  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  knew  by — oh,  just  by  the  subtle 
sympathy  that  exists  between  husband  and  wife, 
Mr.  Blair."  She  laughed  again  and  glanced  at 
Marchmont.  "  Sir  Winterton  must  look  out  for 
the  detectives,  mustn't  he  ?"  she  ended. 

Marchmont  saw,  though  Blair  did  not,  that  she 
jested  uneasily  and  reaped  no  pleasure,  although  she 
reaped  amusement,  from  her  clever  recognition  of 
her  husband's  style.  She  had  spoken  in  much  the 
same  tone  about  the  difference  with  Dick  Benyon 
and  the  suspicions  which  Dick  cast  on  "  our  sincer- 
ity." He  came  near  to  perceiving  and  understand- 
ing what  was  in  her  mind — what  had  been  there  as 
she  watched  Quisant£  sleeping.  The  first  sugges- 
tion of  ferreting  out  something  had  come  from  him, 
purely  in  the  way  of  a  cynical  jeer,  just  because  no- 
body  would  ever  suspect  him  of  seriously  contem- 
plating or  taking  part  in  such  a  thing.  Well,  May 
Quisant^  did  not  apparently  feel  quite  so  confident 
about  her  husband. 


168  QUISANTfi. 

Blair  bustled  off,  with  a  parting  mysterious  hint 
that  they  must  lose  no  time  in  preparing  for  the 
fray — it  might  begin  any  week  now — and  May's 
face  relaxed  into  a  more  genuine  smile. 

"  He  does  enjoy  it  so,"  she  explained.  But 
Marchmont  was  not  thinking  of  Blair.  He  asked 
her  abruptly, 

"  You'll  go  to  Henstead  and  help  him,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  shall  be  with  him  right  through. 
He'll  want  all  the  help  I  can  give  him.  It's  every- 
thing to  him  to  win  this  time." 

"  Yes,  I  know."  Her  voice  had  become  troubled 
again  ;  she  was  very  anxious  for  her  husband's  suc- 
cess ;  but  was  she  anxious  about  something  else  too  ? 
"  If  I  can  help  you,  let  me,"  he  said  as  he  rose  to  go. 

She  gave  him  her  hand  and  looked  in  his  face. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  most  likely  I  shouldn't  be  able  to 
ask  you,"  she  said  gravely.  The  answer,  as  she  gave 
it,  meant  so  much  to  him,  and  even  seemed  to  admit 
so  much,  that  he  wondered  at  once  at  her  insight 
into  his  thoughts  and  at  her  frankness  in  facing  what 
she  found  there.  For  did  she  not  in  truth  mean 
that  she  might  want  help  most  on  some  occasion 
when  the  loyalty  he  had  himself  approved  would 
forbid  her  to  reveal  her  distress  to  him  or  to  seek 
his  succour?  He  ventured,  after  an  instant's  hesita- 
tion, on  one  word. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "you  can't  trundle  the 
world's  wheelbarrow  in  white  kid  gloves  ;  at  least  you 
soil  them." 


PRACTICAL  POLITICS.  169 

"  Then  why  trundle  it  ?  "  she  asked.  "  At  any 
rate  you  needn't  say  that  sort  of  thing.  Leave  that 
to  Mr.  Blair." 

Not  only  was  the  time  when  everybody  had  to 
be  bestirring  themselves  approaching  rapidly,  but 
the  appearance  of  Sir  Winterton  Mildmay  in  the 
lists  quickened  the  QuisanteV  departure  for  the 
scene  of  action.  Rooms  were  taken  at  the  Bull  in 
Henstead,  an  election  agent  appointed,  resources  cal- 
culated— this  involved  a  visit  to  Aunt  Maria — and 
matters  got  into  fighting  trim.  During  this  period 
May  had  again  full  cause  to  thank  her  power  of 
humour ;  it  almost  scattered  the  gloomy  and  (as 
she  told  herself)  fanciful  apprehensions  which  had 
gathered  round,  and  allowed  her  to  study  with 
amusement  her  husband's  preparations.  He  talked 
very  freely  to  her  always  about  his  political  views, 
and  now  he  consulted  her  on  the  very  important 
question  of  his  Election  Address.  He  reminded  her 
of  a  man  packing  his  portmanteau  for  a  trip  and  not 
quite  knowing  what  he  would  want,  whether  (for 
example)  shooting  boots  would  come  in  useful,  or 
warm  underclothing  be  essential.  Space  was  limited, 
needs  difficult  to  foresee,  climate  very  uncertain. 
Some  things  were  obviously  necessary,  such  as  the 
cry  on  which  the  Government  was  going  to  the 
country  ;  others  were  sure  to  be  serviceable  ;  in 
went  "something  for  Labour"  (she  gathered  the 
phrase  from  Quisant£'s  rough  notes)  ;  odd  corners 
held  little  pet  articles  of  the  owner's  things  which 
he  had  found  unexpectedly  useful  on  a  previous 


QUISANT£. 

journey,  or  which  might  seem  especially  adapted  to 
the  part  of  the  world  he  was  going  to  visit.  On 
the  local  requirements  Mr.  Foster  the  maltster  was  a 
very  Baedeker.  With  constant  effort  on  Quisant6's 
part,  with  almost  unfailing  amusement  on  his  wife's, 
the  portmanteau  got  itself  filled. 

"  Are  you  sure  there's  nothing  else,  Alexander  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  I  think  I've  got  everything  that's  of  real  serv- 
ice," said  he.  "  I  don't  want  to  overload  it." 

Of  course  not ;  excess  luggage  may  be  very 
expensive.  May  was  smiling  as  she  handed  back 
the  Address. 

"  It's  extraordinarily  clever,"  she  remarked.  "  You 
are  extraordinarily  clever,  you  know." 

"  There's  nothing  in  it  that  isn't  pretty  obvious," 
said  he,  though  he  was  well  pleased. 

"  Oh,  to  you,  yes,  obvious  to  you  ;  that's  just  it," 
she  said. 

But  amongst  all  that  was  in  the  portmanteau 
there  was  nothing  that  could  be  construed  into  a 
friendly  word  for  the  Crusade  ;  and  were  not  the 
anxious  minds  of  the  Henstead  Wesleyans  meant 
to  read  a  disclaimer  of  that  great  movement  in  a 
reference  to  "  the  laudable  and  growing  activity  of 
all  religious  denominations,  each  within  the  sphere 
of  its  own  action  "  ?  Quisante  had  put  in  "  legiti- 
mate "  before  "  sphere,"  but  crossed  it  out  again ; 
the  hint  was  plain  enough  without,  and  a  superfluous 
word  is  a  word  Joo  much.  "  Sphere,"  implies  limita- 
tions; the  Crusade  had  negatived  them.  This 


PRACTICAL  POLITICS.  171 

significant  passage  in  the  Address  was  fresh  in  May's 
mind  when,  a  day  or  two  later,  her  husband  came  in, 
fretful  and  out  of  humour.  He  flung  a  note  down 
on  the  table,  saying  in  a  puzzled  tone, 

"  I  can't  think  what's  come  over  Dick  Benyon. 
You  know  my  fight'll  be  over  before  his  is  half-way 
through,  and  I  wrote  offering  to  go  and  make  a 
couple  of  speeches  for  him.  He  writes  back  to  say 
that  under  existing  circumstances  he  thinks  it'll  be 
better  for  him  not  to  trouble  me.  Read  his  note  ; 
it's  very  stiff  and  distant." 

"Can  you  wonder?"  was  what  rose  to  her  lips. 
She  did  not  put  the  question.  The  odd  thing  was 
that  most  undoubtedly  he  could  wonder  and  did 
wonder,  that  he  did  not  understand  why  Dick  should 
be  aggrieved  nor,  probably,  why,  even  though  he 
chose  to  be  aggrieved,  he  should  therefore  decline 
assistance  of  unquestionable  value. 

"  Well,  there'll  be  a  lot  of  people  glad  to  have 
me,"  said  Quisante  in  resentful  peevishness.  "And 
I  daresay,  if  I  have  a  big  win,  he'll  change  his  mind. 
I  shall  be  worth  having  then." 

"  I  don't  think  that  would  make  any  difference  to 
Dick,"  she  said. 

She  spoke  lightly,  her  tone  was  void  of  all  offence, 
but  Quisant6  left  the  room,  frowning  and  vexed. 
She  had  seemed  to  rebuke  him  and  to  accuse  him 
of  not  seeing  or  not  understanding  something  that 
was  plain  to  her.  He  had  become  very  sensitive  on 
this  point.  Left  to  himself,  he  had  been  a  self- 
contented  man,  quite  clear  about  what  he  meant  to 


i;2  QUISANTfi. 

do,  troubling  very  little  about  what  he  was,  quite 
confident  that  he  could  reason  from  his  own  mind 
to  the  mind  of  his  acquaintances  with  absolute 
safety.  When  he  fell  in  love  with  May  Gaston, 
however,  part  of  her  attraction  for  him  had  lain 
in  his  sense  of  a  difference  between  them,  of  her 
grasp  on  things  and  on  aspects  of  things  which 
eluded  him  ;  in  this  mood  he  had  been  prepared 
to  worship,  to  learn,  to  amend.  These  things 
for  a  little  while  he  had  done  or  attempted,  and  had 
been  met  by  zealous  efforts  to  the  same  end  on  her 
part.  His  great  moments  had  been  frequent  then, 
and  May  had  felt  that  the  risky  work  she  had  under- 
taken might  prosper  and  at  last  be  crowned  with 
success.  As  for  some  months  back  this  idea  of  hers 
had  been  dying,  even  so  Ouisante"'s  humble  mood 
died.  Now  his  suspicious  vanity  saw  blame  of  what 
he  was,  or  even  contempt  of  him,  in  every  word 
by  which  she  might  seem  to  invite  him  to  become 
anything  different.  Though  she  had  declared  her- 
self on  his  side  by  the  most  vital  action  of  her  life, 
he  imputed  to  her  a  leaning  towards  treachery ; 
her  heart  was  more  with  his  critics  than  with  him. 
Yet  he  did  not  become  indifferent  to  her  praise  or 
her  blame,  but  rather  grew  morbidly  sensitive  and 
exacting,  intolerant  of  questioning  and  disliking  even 
a  smile.  He  loved  her,  depended  on  her,  and  valued 
her  opinion  ;  but  she  became  in  a  certain  sense,  if  not 
an  enemy,  yet  a  person  to  be  conciliated,  to  be  hood- 
winked, to  be  tricked  into  a  favourable  view. 
Hence  there  crept  into  his  bearing  towards  her  just 


PRACTICAL  POLITICS.  173 

that  laboured  insincerity  which  she  had  never  ceased 
to  blame  in  his  attitude  towards  the  world  at  large. 
He  showed  her  the  truth  about  himself  now  only  as 
it  were  by  accident,  only  when  he  failed  to  perceive 
that  the  truth  would  not  be  to  her  liking.  But  this 
was  often,  and  every  time  it  happened  it  seemed  to 
him  as  well  as  to  her  at  once  to  widen  the  gulf 
between  them  and  to  move  further  away  any 
artificial  means  of  crossing  it.  Thus  the  new  sense 
of  self-dissatisfaction  and  self-distrust  which  had 
grown  upon  him  centred  round  his  wife  and  seemed 
to  owe  its  origin  to  her. 

On  her  side  there  came  a  sort  of  settled,  resigned, 
not  altogether  unhumorous,  despair.  She  saw  that 
she  had  over-rated  her  power  alike  over  him  and 
over  herself.  She  could  not  change  what  she  hated 
in  him,  and  she  could  not  cease  to  hate  it.  She 
could  neither  make  the  normal  level  higher  nor  yet 
bear  patiently  with  the  normal  lower  level ;  the 
great  moments  would  not  become  perpetual  and  the 
small  moments  grew  more  irritating  and  more 
humiliating.  But  the  great  moments  recurred  from 
time  to  time  and  never  lost  their  charm.  Thus  she 
oscillated  between  the  moods  produced  by  an  in- 
tense intellectual  admiration  on  the  one  hand  and 
an  intense  antipathy  of  the  feelings  on  the  other  ;  and 
in  this  uncomfortable  balancing  she  had  the  prospect 
of  spending  her  life.  Well,  Aunt  Maria  had  lived  in 
it  for  years,  and  Aunt  Maria  could  not  be  called  an 
unhappy  woman.  If  only  Quisante"  would  not  do 
anything  too  outrageous,  she  felt  that  she  would  be 


174  QUISANT£. 

able  to  endure.  Since  she  could  not  change,  she 
must  be  content  to  compromise,  to  ignore — if  only 
he  would  not  drive  her  from  that  refuge  too. 

"  I  suppose  she  sees  what  the  man  is  by  now," 
said  Lady  Richard  to  Morewood,  whom  she  had 
been  trying  to  entice  into  sympathising  with  her 
over  the  scandalous  treatment  of  the  Crusade. 

"  My  dear  Lady  Richard,  she  always  saw  what  he 
is  much  better  than  you  do,  even  better  than  I  do. 
But  it's  one  thing  to  see  what  a  man  is  and  quite 
another  to  see  what  effect  his  being  it  will  have  on 
yourself  from  time  to  time." 

"  What  he's  done  about  Dick  and  the  Dean  is  so 
characteristic." 

"  For  example,"  Morewood  pursued,  "  you  know 
what  a  bore  is,  but  at  one  time  he  kills  you,  at 
another  he  faintly  amuses  you.  You  know  what  a 
Dean  is"  (he  raised  his  voice  so  as  to  let  the  Dean, 
who  was  reading  in  the  window,  overhear)  ;"atone 
time  the  abuse  exasperates  you,  at  another  such 
splendid  indifference  to  the  progress  of  thought 
catches  your  fancy.  No  doubt  Lady  May  expe- 
riences the  same  varieties  of  feeling  towards  her 
worthy  husband." 

"  Well,  I've  done  with  him,"  said  little  Lady 
Richard.  Morewood  laughed. 

"  The  rest  of  us  haven't,"  he  said,  "  and  I  don't 
think  we  ever  shall  till  the  fellow  dies  somehow 
effectively." 

"  What  a  blessing  for  poor  May  !  "  cried  Lady 
Richard  impulsively. 


PRACTICAL  POLITICS.  175 

Morewood  was  a  long  while  answering ;  even  in 
the  end  what  he  said  could  not  be  called  an  answer. 
But  he  annoyed  Lady  Richard  by  shaking  his  finger 
at  her  and  observing, 

"Ah,  there  you  raise  a  very  interesting  question." 
"  Very,"  agreed  the  Dean  from  the  window  seat. 
"  I  didn't  know  you  were  listening,"  said  Lady 
Richard,  wheeling  round. 

"  I  always  listen  about  Mr.  QuisanteV' 
"  Exactly  !  "  exclaimed  Morewood.  "  I  told  you 
so  !  "  But  Lady  Richard  did  not  even  pretend  to 
understand  his  exultation  or  what  Jie  meant.  What- 
ever he  had  happened  to  mean  about  poor  May,  the 
Dean  was  not  Alexander  Quisant6's  wife. 


CHAPTER  XL 

SEVENTY-SEVEN  AND   SUSY  SINNETT. 

THE  course  of  events  gave  to  the  Henstead  elec- 
tion an  importance  which  seemed  rather  adventitious 
to  people  not  Henstead-born.  It  occurredamong  the 
earliest ;  the  cry  was  on  its  trial.  Quisante  was  a 
prominent  champion,  his  opponent  commanded 
great  influence,  and  the  seat  had  always  been  what 
Constantine  Blair  used  to  call  "  pivotal,"  and  less 
diplomatic  tongues  "  wobbly."  Such  materials  for 
conspicuousness  were  sure  to  lose  nothing  in  the 
hands  of  Quisant£.  The  consciousness  that  he  fought 
a  larger  than  merely  local  fight,  on  a  platform  broader 
than  parochial,  under  more  eyes  than  gazed  at 
him  from  the  floor  of  the  Corn-Exchange,  was  the 
spur  he  needed  to  urge  him  to  supreme  effort  and 
rouse  him  to  moments  of  inspiration.  Add  to  this 
the  feeling  that  his  own  career  was  at  its  crisis.  Even 
Fanny  Gaston,  who  rather  unwillingly  accompanied 
her  sister  to  the  Bull,  was  in  twenty-four  hours 
caught  by  the  spirit  of  combat  and  acknowledged 
that  Quisant^  was  a  fine  leader  of  a  battle,  however 
much  he  left  to  be  desired  as  a  brother-in-law.  She 
flung  herself  into  the  fight  with  unstinted  zeal,  and 
was  rewarded  by  Quisant£'s  conviction  that  he  had 

at  last  entirely  overcome  her  dislike  of  him. 
176 


SEVENTY-SEVEN  AND  SUSY  SINNETT.  177 

"  He's  really  splendid  in  his  own  way,"  she  wrote 
to  Jimmy  Benyon — by  now  they  had  come  to  cor- 
responding occasionally — "  and  I  think  that  you  any- 
how— I  don't  ask  Dick,  who's  got  a  fight  of  his 
own — might  come  and  give  him  some  help.  People 
know  how  much  you  did  for  him,  and  it  looks 
rather  odd  that  you  should  neither  of  you  be  here." 
So  Jimmy,  after  a  struggle,  packed  up,  and  gave  and 
received  a  reciprocal  shock  of  surprise  when  he  got 
into  the  same  railway  carriage  as  the  Dean  and 
Mrs.  Baxter. 

"What,  are  you  going  too?"  cried  Jimmy. 

Mrs.  Baxter  explained  that  they  were  not  going  to 
join  Mr.  Quisante  ;  indeed  they  were  bound  for  the 
opposite  camp,  being  on  their  way  to  stay  with  the 
Mildmays.  The  Dean  added  that  his  presence  had 
no  political  significance ;  the  Mildmays  were  old 
friends,  and  the  visit  quite  unconnected  with  the 
election.  "Although,"  the  Dean  added,  "I  shall 
find  it  interesting  to  watch  the  fight."  His  manner 
indicated  that  his  sympathies  were  divided.  Jimmy 
hastened  to  explain  his  presence. 

"  I'm  only  going  because  of  May  and  Fanny.  I 
don't  care  a  straw  about  Quisante,"  he  said,  "al- 
though I'm  loyal  to  the  party,  of  course." 

"  I'm  not  a  party  man,"  observed  the  Dean.  How 
should  he  be,  when  both  parties  contemptuously 
showed  his  dear  Crusade  the  door  ? 

"  I  want  Sir  Winterton  to  win,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter 
with  mild  firmness. 

"  Oh,  I  say  ! "  murmured  Jimmy,  who  was  very 

12 


i/8  QUISANT£. 

ready  to  be  made  to  feel  uncomfortable.  "  Come 
now,  why,  Mrs.  Baxter  ?  " 

Mrs.  Baxter  shook  her  head,  and  went  on  knitting 
the  stocking  which  on  journeys  took  the  place  of 
the  wonted  petticoat. 

"  My  wife's  taken  a  prejudice  against  Mr.  Qui- 
santeY'  the  Dean  explained  apologetically. 

"  A  prejudice !  "  said  Mrs.  Baxter  with  a  patient 
withering  smile  ;  she  implied  that  her  husband  would 
be  calling  religion  and  the  virtues  prejudices  next. 

"  There's  nothing  particularly  wrong  with  him," 
Jimmy  protested  weakly. 

"  There's  nothing  particularly  right  with  him,  Lord 
James.  He's  just  like  that  coachman  of  the  Girdle- 
stones'  ;  he  never  told  the  truth  and  never  cleaned 
his  harness,  but,  bless  you,  there  was  always  a  good 
reason  for  it.  What  became  of  the  man,  Dan?" 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear." 

"  I  remember.  They  had  to  get  rid  of  him,  and 
the  Canon  got  him  made  night-watchman  at  the  In- 
stitute. However,  as  I  say,  I  called  him  Mr.  Rea- 
sons, and  that's  what  I  call  Alexander  Quisante\ 
Poor  girl ! "  The  last  words  referred,  by  a  some- 
what abrupt  transition,  to  Quisant6's  wife. 

The  Dean  smiled  rather  uneasily  at  Jimmy  Ben- 
yon  ;  Mrs.  Baxter  detected  the  smile,  but  was  not 
disturbed.  -  She  shook  her  head  again,  saying, 

"  Sir  Winterton  you  can  trust,  but  if  I  were  he 
I'd  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  all  you  Quisant6  people." 

"  I  say,  hang  it  all !  "  moaned  Jimmy  Benyon.  But 
his  protest  could  not  soften  the  old  lady's  convinced 


SEVENTY-SEVEN  AND  SUSY  SINNETT.  179 

hostility.  "You  ask  his  aunt,"  she  ended  vindict- 
ively, and  Jimmy  was  too  timid  to  suggest  that  en- 
quiries in  such  a  quarter  were  not  the  usual  way  of 
forming  a  judgment  on  rising  statesmen. 

Moreover  he  had  no  opportunity,  for  Miss  Qui- 
sant6  did  not  come  to  Henstead  ;  her  explanation 
showed  the  mixture  of  malice  and  devotion  which 
was  her  usual  attitude  towards  Sandro. 

"  I'd  give  my  ears  to  come,"  she  had  told  May, 
"to  see  the  fun  and  hear  Sandro.  But  I'm  old  and 
ugly  and  scrubby,  and  Sandro  won't  want  me.  I'm 
not  a  swell  like  you  and  your  sister.  I  should  do 
him  harm,  not  good.  He'd  be  ashamed  of  me — oh, 
that'd  only  amuse  me.  But  I'd  best  not  come. 
Write  to  me,  my  dear,  and  send  me  all  his  speeches." 

"  I  wish  you'd  come.  I  want  you  to  talk  to,"  May 
said. 

"  Talk  to  your  sister !  "  jeered  Aunt  Maria  ;  it  was 
nothing  less  than  a  jeer,  for  she  knew  very  well  that 
May  could  not  and  would  not  talk  to  Fanny. 

One  thing  the  Quisant£  people  (as  Mrs.  Baxter 
called  them)  found  out  before  they  had  been  long 
in  Henstead,  and  this  was  the  important  and  deli- 
cate nature  of  anything  and  everything  that  touched 
or  affected  Mr.  Japhet  Williams.  Something  of  this 
had  been  foreshadowed  by  Mr.  Foster's  account  of 
his  friend,  but  the  reality  went  far  beyond.  Japhet 
was  a  small  fretful-faced  man ;  he  was  rich,  liberal, 
and  kind,  but  he  plumed  himself  on  a  scrupulous 
conscience  and  was  the  slave  of  a  trifle-ridden  mind. 
As  a  member  of  a  party,  then,  he  was  hard  to 


QUISANT£. 

work  with,  harder  even  than  Weston  Marchmont, 
of  whom  he  seemed  sometimes  to  May  to  be  a  re- 
duced and  travestied  copy.  Not  a  speech  could  be 
made,  not  a  bill  issued,  but  Japhet  Williams  flew 
round  to  the  Committee  Room  with  an  objection  to 
urge  and  a  hole  to  pick.  There  he  would  find  large, 
stout,  shrewd  old  Foster,  installed  in  an  arm-chair 
and  ready  with  native  diplomacy,  or  Quisant6  him- 
self, earning  Mrs.  Baxter's  nickname  of  "  Mr.  Rea- 
sons" by  the  suave  volubility  of  his  explanations. 
May  laughed  at  such  scenes  half-a-dozen  times  in 
the  first  week  of  her  stay  at  Henstead. 

"  Is  he  so  very  important  to  us?"  she  asked  of 
Foster. 

He  answered  her  in  a  whisper  behind  a  fat 
hand, 

"  His  house  is  only  a  couple  of  miles  from  Sir 
Winterton's,  and  Lady  Mildmay's  been  civil.  He 
employs  a  matter  of  two  hundred  men  up  at  the 
mills  yonder." 

"The  position's  very  critical,  isn't  it,  then?" 

"  So  your  good  husband  seems  to  think,"  said 
Foster,  jerking  his  thumb  towards  where  Quisante1 
leant  over  Japhet's  shoulder,  almost  caressing  him, 
and  ingeniously  justifying  the  statistics  of  an  elec- 
tioneering placard.  May's  eyes  followed  the  direc- 
tion of  the  jerk.  She  sighed. 

"Yes,  it's  a  waste  of  Mr.  Quisant6's  time,  but  we 
can't  help  that,"  Foster  sighed  responsively.  It  was 
not,  however,  of  Quisant£'s  time  that  his  wife  had 
been  thinking. 


SEVENTY-SEVEN  AND  SUSY  SINNETT.  181 

Japhet  rose.  Quisant£  took  his  hand,  shook  it, 
and  held  it. 

"  Now  you're  satisfied,  really  satisfied,  Mr.  Wil- 
liams ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  give  you  my  word  that  what 
I've  said  is  absolutely  accurate." 

"  What  that  placard  says,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  certainly — what  the  placard  says.  It 
doesn't  give  the  details  and  explanations,  of  course, 
but  the  results  are  accurately  stated." 

"  I'm  much  relieved  to  hear  it,  much  relieved," 
said  Japhet. 

He  left  them  ;  Foster  sat  down  again,  smiling. 
May  had  come  to  drive  her  husband  to  a  meeting 
and  waited  his  leisure.  He  came  across  to  Foster, 
holding  the  suspected  placard  in  his  hand. 

"Smoothed  him  down  this  time,  sir?"  asked 
Foster  cheerily. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Quisant6,  passing  his  hand  over 
his  smooth  hair.  "  I  think,  Mr.  Foster,  we  won't 
have  any  more  of  this  Number  77.  Make  a  note  of 
that,  will  you  ?  " 

"  No  more  of  77,"  Foster  noted  on  a  piece  of 
paper. 

"  It's  not  one  of  the  most  effective,"  said  Quisant£ 
thoughtfully. 

"Sails  a  little  near  the  wind,  don't  it?"  asked 
Foster  with  a  wink. 

"  Brief  summaries  of  intricate  subjects  are  almost 
inevitably  open  to  misunderstanding,"  observed 
Quisant6. 

"  Just   so,  just  so,"   Foster   hurried  to  say,  his 


182  QUISANT£. 

eyes  grown  quite  grave  again.  May  remembered 
Mr.  Constantine  Blair's  plagiarism  of  her  husband's 
style ;  had  he  been  there,  he  must  have  appropri- 
ated this  last  example  also.  "  I  shall  end  by  be- 
coming very  fond  of  Japhet  Williams,"  she  said  as 
she  got  into  the  carriage.  Quisant£  glanced  at  her 
and  did  not  ask  her  why. 

Meanwhile,  however,  the  other  side  had  got  hold 
of  No.  77,  and  Smiley,  the  agent,  a  very  clever 
fellow,  wired  up  to  the  Temple  for  young  Terence 
McPhair,  who  had  an  acquaintance  with  the  subject. 
Young  Terence,  who  possessed  a  ready  tongue  and 
no  briefs  to  use  it  on,  made  fine  play  with  No.  77  ; 
accusations  of  misrepresentation,  ignorant  he  hoped, 
fraudulent  he  feared,  flew  about  thick  as  snowflakes. 
The  next  morning  Japhet  was  round  at  the  Com- 
mittee Room  by  ten  o'clock.  Foster  was  there, 
and  a  boy  came  up  to  the  Bull  with  a  message 
asking  if  Mr.  Quisant£  could  make  it  convenient  to 
step  round.  It  was  a  bad  morning  with  Quisant£  ; 
his  head  ached,  his  heart  throbbed,  and  his  stomach 
was  sadly  out  of  gear;  he  had  taken  up  a  report  of 
young  Terence's  speech,  and  read  It  in  gloomy  silence 
while  the  others  breakfasted.  There  was  to  be  a 
great  meeting  that  night,  and  they  had  hoped  that 
he  would  reserve  what  strength  he  had  for  it.  He 
heard  the  message,  rose  without  a  word,  and  went 
down  to  the  Committee  Room. 

"  What'll  he  do?  "  asked  Jimmy  Benyon.  "They 
gave  us  some  nasty  knocks  last  night." 

"  He  can  prove  that  the  placard  has  been  with- 


SEVENTY-SEVEN  AND  SUSY  SINNETT.  183 

drawn,  at  least  that  no  more  are  to  be  ordered,"  said 
Fanny  Gaston.  "  It  wasn't  his  fault  ;  he's  not 
bound  to  defend  it." 

Quisant6  came  home  to  a  late  lunch  ;  he  was  still 
ill,  but  his  depression  had  vanished  ;  he  ate,  drank, 
and  talked,  his  spirit  rising  above  the  woes  of  his 
body. 

"What  have  you  done  this  morning?"  Fanny 
asked. 

"  Held  a  meeting  in  the  dinner-hour,  had  ten 
interviews,  and  the  usual  palaver  with  Japhet." 

"  How  are  Mr.  Williams'  feelings?"  asked  May. 

"  He's  all  right  now,"  said  Quisant£,  smiling. 
Then  he  added,  "  Oh,  and  we've  wired  to  town  for 
two  hundred  and  fifty  more  of  77." 

Then  May  knew  what  was  going  to  happen. 
Quisante  was  roused.  The  placard  was  untrue,  at 
least  misleading,  and  he  knew  it  was;  he  might 
have  retreated  before  young  Terence  and  sheltered 
himself  by  an  inglorious  disclaimer.  That,  as  Aunt 
Maria  said,  was  not  Sandro's  way.  No.  77  came 
down  by  the  afternoon  train,  a  corps  of  bill-posters 
was  let  loose,  and  as  they  drove  to  the  evening 
meeting  the  town  was  red  with  it.  Withdrawn, 
disclaimed,  apologised  for?  It  was  insisted  on, 
relied  on,  made  a  trump  card  of,  flung  full  in  young 
Terence's  audacious  face.  May  sat  by  her  husband 
in  that  strange  mixed  mood  that  he  roused  in  her, 
half  pride,  half  humiliation  ;  scorning  him  because 
he  would  not  bow  before  the  truth,  exulting  in  the 
audacity,  the  dash,  and  the  daring  of  him,  art  the 


1 84  QUISANTE. 

spirit  that  caught  victory  out  of  danger  and  turned 
mistake  into  an  occasion  of  triumph.  For  triumph 
it  was  that  night.  Who  could  doubt  his  sincerity, 
who  question  the  injured  honour  that  rang  like  a 
trumpet  through  his  words?  And  who  could  throw 
any  further  slur  on  No.  77,  thus  splendidly  cham- 
pioned, vindicated,  and  almost  sanctified?  Never 
yet  in  Henstead  had  they  heard  him  so  inspired  ;  to 
May  herself  it  seemed  the  finest  thing  he  had  yet 
done  ;  and  even  young  Terence,  when  he  read  it,  felt 
glad  that  he  had  left  Henstead  by  the  morning  train. 

As  Quisante  sank  into  his  chair  amid  a  tumult 
of  applause,  Foster  winked  across  the  platform 
at  May ;  but  little  Japhet  Williams  was  clapping 
his  hands  as  madly  as  any  man  among  them. 
Who  could  not  congratulate  him,  who  could  not 
praise  him,  who  could  not  feel  that  he  was  a  man  to 
be  proud  of  and  a  man  to  serve?  Yet  most  un- 
doubtedly No.  77  was  untrue  or  at  least  misleading, 
and  Alexander  Quisant£  knew  it.  Undoubtedly  he 
had  said  "  No  more  of  it."  And  now  he  had 
pinned  it  as  his  colours  to  the  mast.  May  found 
herself  looking  at  him  with  as  fresh  an  interest  and 
as  great  a  fear  as  in  the  first  weeks  of  their  marriage. 
Would  she  in  her  heart  have  had  him  honest  over 
No.  77,  honest  and  inglorious?  Or  was  she  coming 
to  think  as  he  did,  and  to  ask  little  concerning 
honesty?  What  would  Weston  Marchmont  think 
of  the  affair?  Or,  short  of  that,  how  Morewood 
would  smile  and  the  Dean  shake  his  head ! 

Trie  No.  77  episode  was  very  typical  of  that  time, 


SEVENTY-SEVEN  AND  SUSYSINNETT.  185 

and  most  typical  of  Alexander  Quisante"s  conduct, 
of  Sandro's  way.  His  best  and  his  worst,  his  highest 
and  his  lowest,  were  called  out  ;  at  one  moment  he 
wheedled  an  ignorant  fool  with  flattery,  at  another 
he  roused  keen  honest  men  to  fine  enthusiasm  ;  now 
he  seemed  to  have  no  thought  that  was  not  selfish 
and  mean,  now  imagination  rapt  him  to  a  glow  of 
heart-felt  patriotism.  -  The  good  and  the  bad  both 
stood  him  in  stead,  and  hope  reigned  in  his  camp. 
But  all  hung  in  the  balance,  for  Sir  Winterton  was 
tall  and  handsome,  bluff  and  hearty,  a  good  landlord, 
a  good  sportsman,  a  good  man,  a  neighbour  to  the 
town  and  a  friend  to  half  of  it.  And  the  great  cry 
did  not  seem  like  proving  a  great  success. 

"  It's  up-hill  work  against  Sir  Winterton,"  said 
Japhet  Williams,  rubbing  his  thin  little  hands 
together. 

A  troubled  look  spread  over  the  broad  face  of  that 
provincial  diplomatist,  Mr.  Foster  the  maltster ;  he 
knew  where  the  danger  lay.  They  would  come  to 
Quisant£'s  meetings,  applaud  him,  admire  him,  be 
proud  of  his  efforts  to  please  them  ;  but  when  the 
day  came  would  they  not  think  (and  would  not  their 
wives  remind  them)  that  Sir  Winterton  was  a 
neighbour  and  a  friend  and  that  Lady  Mildmay 
was  kind  and  sweet  ?  Then,  having  shouted  for 
Quisante,  would  they  not  in  the  peaceful  obscurity 
of  the  ballot  put  their  cross  opposite  Mildmay 's 
name? 

"  I'm  not  easy  about  it,  sir,  that  I'm  not,"  said 
Foster,  wiping  his  broad  red  brow. 


i86  QUISANT£. 

Quisant6  was  not  easy  either,  as  his  lined  face  and 
his  high-strung  manner  showed  ;  he  was  half-killing 
himself  and  he  was  not  easy.  So  much  hung  on  it ; 
before  all  England  he  had  backed  himself  to  win, 
and  in  the  strain  of  his  excitement  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  stake  he  laid  was  his  whole  reputation. 
Was  all  that  to  go,  and  to  go  on  no  great  issue, 
but  just  because  Sir  Winterton  was  bluff  and  cheery 
and  Lady  Mildmay  kind  and  sweet  ?  Another 
thing  he  knew  about  himself;  if  he  lost  this  time, 
he  must  be  out  in  the  cold  at  least  for  a  long  time ; 
he  could  not  endure  another  contest,  even  if  the 
offer  of  a  candidature  came  to  him,  even  though 
Aunt  Maria  found  the  funds.  Everything  was  on 
this  fling  of  the  dice  then ;  and  it  seemed  to  him 
almost  iniquitous  that  he  should  lose  because  Sir 
Winterton  was  bluff  and  cheery  and  his  wife  kind 
and  sweet.  His  face  was  hard  and  cunning  as  he 
leant  across  towards  old  Foster  and  said  in  a  low 
voice,  with  a  sneering  smile, 

"  I  suppose  there's  nothing  against  this  admirable 
gentleman  ?" 

Old  Foster  started  a  little,  recollecting  perhaps 
that  fine  passage  in  the  speech  which  opened  the 
campaign,  the  passage  which  defined  the  broad 
public  lines  of  the  contest  and  loftily  disclaimed  any 
personal  attack  or  personal  animosity.  But  the 
next  moment  he  smiled  in  answer,  smiled  thought- 
fully, as  he  tapped  his  teeth  with  the  handle  of  his 
pen-knife.  Quisante"  sat  puffing  at  a  cigar  and  look- 
ing straight  at  him  with  observant  searching  eyes. 


SEVENTY-SEVEN  AND  SUSY  SINNETT.  187 

"  Anything  against  him,  eh  ?  "  asked  Foster  in  a 
ruminative  tone. 

"  They've  been  ready  enough  to  ask  where  I 
come  from,  and  how  I  live,  and  so  on." 

"  They  know  all  that  about  Sir  Winterton,  you 
see,  sir." 

"  Yes,  confound  them."  The  keen  eyes  were  still 
on  Foster  ;  the  fat  old  man  shifted  his  position  a 
little  and  ceased  to  meet  their  regard.  "  We  don't 
want  to  be  beaten,  you  know,"  said  Quisante. 

A  silence  of  some  minutes  followed.  Quisant£, 
rose  and  strolled  off  to  a  table,  where  he  began  to 
sort  papers  ;  Foster  sat  where  he  was,  frowning  a 
little,  with  his  mouth  pursed  up.  He  stole  a  glance 
at  Quisante's  back,  a  curious  enquiring  glance. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  the  rights  of  it  one  way 
or  the  other,"  he  said  at  last.  "  But  some  of  the 
men  up  at  the  mills  and  in  my  place  still  remember 
Tom  Sinnett's  affair.  Only  the  other  night,  as  Sir 
Winterton  drove  by,  one  of  them  shouted  out, 
4  Where's  Susy  Sinnett  ?  '  " 

Quisant^  went  on  sorting  papers  and  did  not  turn 
round. 

"  Who  the  deuce  is  Susy  Sinnett  ?  "  he  asked  in- 
differently, with  a  laugh. 

"  It  was  about  five  years  ago — before  Sir  Winter- 
ton's  split  with  the  Liberals.  Tom  was  a  keeper 
in  Sir  Winterton's  employ,  and  Sir  Winterton 
charged  him  with  netting  game  and  sending  it  to 
London  on  his  own  account."  Foster's  narrative 
ceased  and  he  looked  again  at  his  candidate's  back. 


IBS  QUISANT£. 

The  papers  rustled  and  the  cigar  smoke  mounted  to 
the  ceiling.  "  Well?"  said  Quisante. 

"  Tom  was  found  guilty  at  Sessions  ;  but  in  the 
dock  he  declared  Sir  Winterton  had  trumped  up  the 
charge  to  shut  his  mouth." 

"  What  about  ?  " 

"  Well,  because  he'd  found  Sir  Winterton  dan- 
gling after  Susy,  and  threatened  to  break  his  head  if 
he  found  him  there  again."  He  paused,  Quisant£ 
made  no  comment.  "  Tom  got  nine  months,  and 
when  he  came  out  all  the  family  emigrated  to 
Manitoba." 

After  a  short  pause,  filled  by  the  arrangement  of 
papers,  Quisante  observed,  "  That  must  have  cost 
money.  He'd  saved  out  of  what  he  got  for  the 
game,  eh  ?  " 

"  It  was  supposed  Sir  Winterton  found  the 
money,"  said  Foster,  "  but  nothing  was  known. 
Sir  Winterton  refused  to  make  any  statement.  He 
said  his  friends  would  know  what  to  think,  and  he 
didn't  care  a  damn  (that  was  his  word)  about  any- 
body else.  Still  some  weren't  satisfied.  But  the 
talk  died  away,  except  here  and  there  among  the 
men  who'd  been  Tom's  pals.  I  daresay  Tom  gave 
'em  a  rabbit  now  and  again  in  exchange  for  a  pot 
of  beer,  and  they  missed  him."  Mr.  Foster  ended 
with  a  little  chuckle. 

"  I  think  Sir  Winterton  might  have  been  a  little 
more  explicit,"  Quisant^  remarked.  "  There's  some 
excuse  for  thinking  an  explanation  not  unnecessary. 
What  became  of  the  girl  ?  Did  she  go  to  Manitoba  ?  " 


SEVENTY-SEVEN  AND  SUSY  SINNETT.  189 

"  I  believe  she  did  in  the  end,  but  she'd  married 
a  man  from  Dunn's  works  and  left  the  town  three 
months  after  her  father  was  sent  to  prison." 

Quisante  came  back  to  the  hearth  and  stood  look- 
ing down  on  old  Foster. 

"  Rather  a  queer  story,"  he  said.  "  But  I  meant, 
was  there  anything  against  him  of  a  public  nature, 
in  his  local  record,  anything  of  that  sort,  you  know." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  that  kind,"  said  Foster, 
raising  his  eyes  and  meeting  his  leader's.  He 
looked  rather  puzzled,  as  if  he  were  still  not  quite 
sure  what  Quisant£'s  question  had  meant,  in  spite 
of  Quisant£'s  explanation  of  it.  "  I'd  almost 
forgotten  this,  but  Japhet  Williams  mentioned  it 
the  other  day.  You  know  Japhet  by  now.  He 
said  he  thought  he  ought  to  ask  Sir  Winterton  to 
make  a  statement." 

A  sudden  gleam  shot  through  Quisant6's  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Williams'  active  conscience  at  work  again  ?" 
he  asked  with  a  sneering  laugh. 

"  That's  it,"  said  Foster,  still  looking  stolidly  at 
his  chief.  "  But  I  know  Sir  Winterton ;  he'd  only 
say  what  he  did  before." 

Quisant^  turned,  flung  the  end  of  his  cigar  into 
the  grate,  and  turned  back  to  Foster,  saying, 

"  Mr.  Williams  must  do  as  he  thinks  right ;  but 
of  course  I  can't  have  any  hand  in  a  matter  of  that 
kind." 

"  Just  so,  just  so,"  murmured  Foster  as  hurriedly 
but  even  more  vaguely  than  usual.  His  chief  was 
puzzling  him  still. 


ipo  QUISANTE. 

"  1  can't  have  anything  at  all  to  do  with  it,"  Qui- 
sante  repeated  emphatically.  Foster  did  not  quite 
know  whence  he  gathered  the  impression,  but  he 
was  left  with  the  feeling  that,  if  he  should  chance 
ever  to  be  asked  what  had  passed  between  them  on 
the  subject,  he  must  remember  this  sentence  at 
least,  whatever  else  of  the  conversation  he  recol- 
lected or  forgot. 

"  Of  course  you  can't,  sir.  I  only  mentioned  it 
in  passing,"  said  he. 

"  And  you'd  better  tell  Japhet  Williams  so,  if  he 
mentions  the  matter."  The  slightest  pause  fol- 
lowed. "  Or,"  added  Quisante1,  grinding  his  heel 
into  the  hearth  rug  as  though  in  absence  of  mind, 
"  if  it  happens  to  crop  up  in  talk  between  you." 

Whether  the  matter  did  crop  up  as  suggested  or 
not  is  one  of  those  points  of  secret  history  which 
it  seems  useless  to  try  to  discover.  But  an  incident 
which  occurred  the  next  evening  showed  that  Japhet 
Williams'  mind  and  conscience  had,  either  of  their 
own  motion  or  under  some  outside  direction,  been 
concerning  themselves  with  the  question  of  Tom 
Sinnett  and  his  daughter  Susy.  There  was  a  full 
and  enthusiastic  meeting  of  Sir  Winterton's  sup- 
porters. In  spite  of  Quisante's  victory  over  No.  77, 
they  were  in  good  heart  and  fine  fighting  fettle ; 
Sir  Winterton  was  good-tempered  and  sanguine  ; 
there  was  enough  opposition  to  give  the  affair  go, 
not  enough  to  make  itself  troublesome.  But  at  the 
end,  after  a  few  of  the  usual  questions  and  the  usual 
verbal  triumphs  of  the  candidate,  a  small  man  rose 


SEVENTY-SEVEN  AND  SUSY  SINNETT.  191 

from  the  middle  of  the  hall.  He  was  greeted  by 
hoots,  with  a  few  cheers  mingling.  The  Chairman 
begged  silence  for  their  worthy  fellow-townsman, 
Councillor  Japhet  Williams. 

Japhet  was  perfectly  self-possessed  ;  he  had  been, 
he  said,  as  a  rule  a  supporter  of  the  opposite 
party,  but  he  kept  his  mind  open  and  was  free  to 
admit  that  he  had  been  considerably  impressed  by 
some  of  the  arguments  which  had  fallen  from  Sir 
Winterton  Mildmay  that  evening.  The  meeting 
applauded,  and  Sir  Winterton  nodded  and  smiled. 
There  was  one  matter,  however,  which  he  felt 
it  his  duty  to  mention.  Now  that  Sir  Winterton 
Mildmay  (the  full  name  came  with  punctilious 
courtesy  every  time)  was  appealing  to  a  wider 
circle  than  that  of  his  personal  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances, now  that  he  was  seeking  the  confi- 
dence of  his  fellow-townsmen  in  general  (A  voice 
"  He's  got  it  too,"  and  cheers),  would  Sir  Win- 
terton Mildmay  consider  the  desirability  of  re- 
considering the  attitude  he  had  taken  up  some  time 
ago,  and  consider  the  desirability  (Japhet's  speech 
was  not  very  artistically  phrased  but  he  loved  the 
long  words)  of  making  a  fuller  public  statement 
with  reference  to  what  he  (Mr.  Japhet  Williams) 
would  term  the  Sinnett  affair?  And  with  this 
Japhet  sat  down,  having  caused  what  the  reporters 
very  properly  described  as  a  "  Sensation" — and  an 
infinite  deal  of  hooting  and  groaning  to  boot.  But 
there  were  cheers  also  from  the  back  of  the  room, 
where  a  body  of  roughly  dressed  sturdy  fellows  sat 


1 92  QUISANT£. 

sucking  at  black  clay  pipes  ;  these  were  men  from 
the  various  works,  from  Dunn's  and  from  Japhet's 
own. 

As  Japhet  proceeded  Sir  Winterton's  handsome 
face  had  grown  ruddier  and  ruddier  ;  when  Japhet 
finished,  he  sat  still  through  the  hubbub,  but  his 
hand  twitched  and  he  clutched  the  elbow  of  his 
chair  tightly.  The  platform  collectively  looked  un- 
comfortable. The  chairman — he  was  Green,  the 
linen-draper  in  High  Street — glanced  uneasily  at 
Sir  Winterton  and  then  whispered  in  his  ear.  Sir 
Winterton  threw  a  short  remark  at  him,  the  chair- 
man shrank  back  with  the  appearance  of  having 
been  snubbed.  Sir  Winterton  rose  slowly  to  his 
feet,  still  very  red  in  the  face,  still  controlling  him- 
self to  a  calmness  of  gesture  and  voice.  But  all  he 
said  in  answer  to  that  most  respected  and  influential 
townsman  Mr.  Japhet  Williams  was, 

"  No,  I  won't." 

And  down  he  plumped  into  his  chair  again. 

Not  a  word  of  courtesy,  not  a  word  of  respect  for 
Japhet's  motives,  not  even  an  appeal  for  trust,  not 
even  a  simple  pledge  of  his  word  !  A  curt  and  con- 
temptuous "  No,  I  won't,"  was  all  that  Sir  Winter- 
ton's  feelings,  or  Sir  Winterton's  sensitiveness,  or 
his  temper,  or  his  obstinacy,  allowed  him  to  utter. 
Sir  Winterton  was  a  great  man,  no  doubt,  but  at 
election  times  the  People  also  enjoys  a  transient 
sense  of  greatness  and  of  power.  The  cheers  were 
less  hearty  now,  the  groans  more  numerous ;  the 
audience  felt  that,  in  its  own  person  and  in  the  per- 


SEVENTY-SEVEN  AND  SUSY  SINNETT.  193 

son  of  Japhet  Williams,  it  was  being  treated  with 
disrespect ;  already  one  or  two  asked,  "If  he's  got 
a  fair  and  square  answer,  why  don't  he  give  it  ? " 
The  superfine  sense  of  honour,  which  feels  itself 
wounded  by  being  asked  for  a  denial  and  soiled  by 
condescending  to  give  one,  is  of  a  texture  too  delicate 
for  common  appreciation.  "  No,  I  won't,"  said 
Sir  Winterton,  red  in  the  face,  and  the  meeting  felt 
snubbed.  Why  did  he  snub  them?  The  meeting 
began  to  feel  suspicious.  There  were  no  more 
questions;  the  proceedings  were  hurried  through; 
Sir  Winterton  drove  off,  pompous  in  his  anger, 
red  from  his  hurt  feelings,  stiff  in  his  obstinacy. 
The  cheer  that  followed  him  had  not  its  former 
heartiness. 

"  I  only  did  my  duty,"  said  Japhet  to  a  group 
who  surrounded  him. 

"  That's  right,  Mr.  Williams,"  he  was  answered. 
"  We  know  you.  Don't  you  let  yourself  be  silenced, 
sir."  For  everybody  now  remembered  the  Sinnett 
affair,  which  had  seemed  so  forgotten,  everybody  had 
a  detail  to  tell  concerning  it,  his  own  views  to  set 
forth,  or  those  of  some  shrewd  friend  to  repeat. 
That  night  the  taverns  in  the  town  were  full  of  it, 
and  at  many  a  supper  table  the  story  was  told  over 
again.  As  for  Japhet,  he  dropped  in  at  Mr.  Foster's 
and  told  what  he  had  done,  complaining  bitterly  of 
how  Sir  Winterton  had  treated  him,  declaring  that 
he  had  been  prepared  to  listen  to  any  explanation, 
almost  to  take  Sir  Winterton's  simple  word,  but 
that  he  was  not  to  be  bullied  in  a  matter  in  which 
13 


QUISANT£. 

his  own  conscience  and  the  rights  of  the  constitu- 
ency were  plainly  and  deeply  involved.  Mr.  Foster 
said  as  little  as  he  could. 

"  It  won't  do  for  me  to  take  any  part,"  he  re- 
marked. "  I'm  too  closely  connected  with  Mr. 
Quisant6,  and  I  know  he  wouldn't  wish  to  enter 
into  such  a  matter." 

"  I'm  not  acting  as  a  party  man,"  said  Japhet 
Williams,  "and  this  isn't  a  party  matter.  But  a 
plain  answer  to  a  plain  question  isn't  much  to  ask, 
and  I  mean  to  ask  for  it  till  I  get  it,  or  know  the 
reason  why  I  can't." 

Dim  rumours  of  a  "  row  "  at  Sir  Winterton's  meet- 
ing reached  the  Bull  that  night,  brought  by  Jimmy 
Benyon,  who  had  been  at  a  minor  meeting  across 
the  railway  bridge  among  the  railway  men.  Some- 
body had  brought  up  an  old  scandal,  and  the  can- 
didate's answer  had  not  given  satisfaction.  The 
ladies  showed  no  curiosity  ;  Quisante',  very  tired, 
lay  on  the  sofa  doing  nothing,  neither  reading,  nor 
talking,  nor  sleeping.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
ceiling,  he  seemed  hardly  to  hear  what  Jimmy  said, 
and  he  also  asked  no  questions.  So  Jimmy,  dis- 
missing the  matter  from  his  mind,  went  to  bed, 
leaving  Quisant6  still  lying  there,  with  wide-open 
eyes. 

There  he  lay  a  long  while  alone  ;  once  or  twice 
he  frowned,  once  or  twice  he  smiled.  Was  he 
thinking  over  the  opportunity  that  offered,  and  the 
instrument  that  presented  itself?  What  chances 
might  lie  in  Sir  Winterton's  dogged  honour  and 


SEVENTY-SEVEN  AND  SUSY  SINNETT.  195 

tender  sensitiveness  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the 
other  in  that  conscience  of  little  Japhet's,  stronger 
now  in  its  alliance  with  hurt  pride  and  outraged  self- 
importance  !  And  nobody  could  say  that  Quisant6 
himself  had  had  any  part  in  it  ;  he  had  spoken  to  no- 
body except  Foster,  and  he  had  told  Foster  most 
plainly  that  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  such  a 
matter.  There  he  lay,,  making  his  case,  the  case  he 
could  tell  to  all  the  world,  the  case  Foster  also 
could  tell,  the  case  that  both  Foster  and  he  could  and 
would  tell,  if  need  be,  to  all  the  world,  to  all  the 
world — and  to  May  Quisante\ 

"  Sandro  always  has  a  case,"  said  Aunt  Maria. 
He  had  a  case  about  what  Japhet  termed  the 
Sinnett  affair,  just  as  he  had  had  a  case,  and  a  very 
strong  one  as  it  had  proved,  about  placard  No.  77. 
When  at  last  he  dragged  his  weary  overdone  body 
to  bed,  his  lips  were  set  tight  and  his  eyes  were 
eager.  It  was  the  look  that  meant  something  in 
his  mind,  good  or  bad,  but  anyhow  a  resolution, 
and  the  prospect  of  work  to  be  done.  Had  May 
seen  him  then,  she  would  have  known  the  look,  and 
hoped  and  feared.  But  she  was  sleeping,  and  none 
asked  Quisant6  what  was  in  his  mind  that  night. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A   HIGHLY   CORRECT  ATTITUDE. 

UP  to  the  present  time  all  had  gone  most  smoothly 
at  Moors  End,  the  Mildmays'  old  manor-house, 
eight  miles  from  Henstead,  and  Lady  Mildmay  had 
confided  many  quiet  self-congratulations  to  Mrs. 
Baxter's  ear.  For  it  had  seemed  possible  that  the 
election  might  prove  a  cause  of  perturbation.  Lady 
Mildmay  was  still  in  love  with  her  handsome  well- 
preserved  husband,  and  had  every  confidence  in 
him,  but  to  a  chosen  friend  she  would  sometimes 
admit  that  he  was  "difficult  "  ;  she  called  him  not 
proud  and  obstinate,  but  sensitive  and  a  little 
touchy  ;  she  hinted  that  he  could  not  bear  unpleas- 
ant looks,  and  yet  was  not  very  ready  to  make  con- 
cessions to  friendship.  No  doubt  he  needed  some 
management,  and  Lady  Mildmay,  like  many  wives, 
found  one  of  her  chief  functions  to  consist  in  acting 
as  a  buffer  between  her  husband  and  a  world  which 
did  not  always  approach  him  with  enough  gentle- 
ness and  consideration.  Hence  her  joy  at  the  pros- 
perous passage  of  a  critical  time,  at  the  enthusiasm 
of  their  supporters,  and  at  the  gratification  and 
urbanity  of  Sir  Winterton.  Satisfaction  begat  char- 
ity, and  Lady  Mildmay  had  laughingly  dismissed 
some  portentous  hints  which  Mrs.  Baxter  let  fall 
196 


A  HIGHLY  CORRECT  ATTITUDE.     197 

about  the  certain  character  and  the  probable  tactics 
of  Mr.  Quisant£. 

"  His  wife  looks  so  nice,  he  can't  be  very  bad," 
said  kind  Lady  Mildmay,  using  an  argument  of  most 
uncritical  charity. 

Although  the  Dean,  if  pressed,  must  have  ranked 
himself  among  his  host's  political  opponents,  he 
was  so  little  of  a  party  man  and  had  so  many  points 
of  sympathy  with  Sir  Winterton  (especially  on 
Church  matters)  that  he  very  contentedly  witnessed 
the  contest  from  Moors  End  and  no  longer  troubled 
himself  to  conceal  his  hopes  of  a  Moors  End  tri- 
umph. Nevertheless  he  was  judiciously  reticent 
about  Quisant£,  generously  eulogistic  of  May.  Sir 
Winterton  looked  forward  to  making  the  acquaint- 
ance of  both,  but  thought  that  the  occasion  had 
better  be  postponed  till  they  had  ceased  to  be  oppo- 
nents. 

"  But  I  hope  you  and  your  wife'll  go  over  as 
often  as  you  like,"  he  said  to  the  Dean  very  cordially. 
But  the  Dean  and  Mrs.  Baxter  did  not  go,  perhaps 
preferring  not  to  divide  their  sympathies,  perhaps 
fearing  that  they  might  seem  like  spies  and  be  sus- 
pected of  carrying  back  information  to  the  rival 
camp.  "  I  dare  say  you're  wise,"  said  Sir  Winter- 
ton,  rather  relieved ;  he  had  made  the  suggestion 
because  it  was  the  handsome  thing  to  do,  but  was 
not  eager  that  it  should  be  accepted.  To  do  the 
handsome  thing  and  to  meet  with  pleasant  looks 
were  the  two  requisites  most  essential  to  Sir  Win- 
terton's  happiness  ;  given  these  he  was  at  his  best 


198  QUISANT£. 

and  his  best  was  a  fine  specimen  of  the  class  to 
which  he  belonged.  There  was,  however,  a  weak  side 
to  these  two  desires  of  his,  as  the  history  of  the 
Sinnett  affair  to  some  extent  indicated. 

The  first  shock  to  Sir  Winterton's  good  temper 
had  been  the  matter  of  No.  77 ;  until  then  he  had 
been  lavish  of  the  usual  polite  compliments  to  his 
opponent's  personal  character.  After  No  77*5  prod- 
igal reappearance  and  Quisante's  rhetorical  effort 
in  defence  of  it  these  assurances  were  no  more  on 
his  lips,  and  for  a  time  he  bore  himself  with  strict 
reserve  when  Quisant6  was  mentioned.  He  had 
been  right  in  the  dispute,  and  he  had  been  beaten  ; 
silence  was  the  utmost  that  could  be  expected  of 
his  tolerance  or  his  self-control ;  his  refusal  to  speak 
on  the  subject  showed  his  opinion  well  enough,  and 
he  must  not  be  blamed  too  severely  if  he  listened 
without  protest  and  perhaps  with  pleasure  to  Mrs. 
Baxter's  pungent  criticisms.  Of  course  she  had  been 
reminded  of  something — of  the  strictures  which  a 
certain  Provincial  Editor  had  passed  on  the  house- 
hold arrangements  of  a  certain  Minor  Canon  ;  a 
libel  action  had  ensued,  and  the  jury  had  been  be- 
guiled into  finding  for  the  defendant  on  a  bare 
literal  construction  of  words  which  to  anybody  ac- 
quainted with  local  circumstances  bore  another  and 
much  blacker  meaning.  This  Mrs.  Baxter  called  a 
pettifogging  trick,  and  she  pursued  her  parallel  till 
the  same  terms  were  obviously  indicated  as  appro- 
priate to  Quisante's  conduct. 

"  My  dear  !"  said  the  Dean  in  mild  protest ;  but 


A  HIGHLY  CORRECT  ATTITUDE.     199 

Sir  Winterton  laughed  as  though  he  had  enjoyed 
the  story.  He  was  at  once  favoured  with  the  fur- 
ther parallel  of  the  Girdlestones'  coachman  and,  as 
the  conversation  drifted  to  May,  of  the  Noncon- 
formist Minister's  daughter  and  the  Circus  Propri- 
etor. All  Mrs.  Baxter's  armoury  of  reminiscence 
was  heartily  at  his  service. 

But  No.  77  did  not  after  all  touch  Sir  Winterton 
very  closely.  His  temper  had  begun  to  recover  and 
he  had  nearly  forgiven  Quisant6  when  suddenly 
Japhet  Williams  produced  a  far  more  severe  and 
deadly  shock.  His  action  was  a  bomb,  and  a  bomb 
thrown  from  a  hand  which  Moors  End  had  been 
fain  to  think  was  or  might  be  friendly.  Was  not 
Japhet  a  neighbour,  only  two  miles  off  along  the 
Henstead  Road,  and  did  not  Lady  Mildmay  and 
Mrs  Williams,  re'igious  differences  notwithstanding, 
work  together  every  year  on  the  Committee  of  the 
Cottage  Gardens  and  Window-Boxes  Show  ?  Had 
not  Japhet  himself  been  understood  to  be  recon- 
sidering his  political  opinions?  There  was  even 
more.  The  Sinnett  affair  was  the  one  subject  ut- 
terly forbidden,  most  rigidly  tabooed,  at  Moors  End. 
All  Sir  Winterton's  relatives,  friends,  acquaint- 
ances, and  dependents  knew  that  well.  Sir  Winter- 
ton's  honour  and  temper  had  never  been  so  wounded 
as  over  that  affair.  By  Japhet's  hand  it  was  dragged 
into  light  again ;  the  odious  thing  became  once 
more  the  gossip  of  Henstead,  once  more  a  disgust- 
ing topic  which  it  was  impossible  wholly  to  ignore 
at  Moors  End.  This  was  plain  enough  since,  on  the 


200  QUISANT£. 

morning  after  Japhet's  question  had  been  put,  Lady 
Mildmay  was  discussing  the  position  with  Mrs. 
Baxter  in  the  morning-room,  while  the  Dean  and 
Sir  Winterton  walked  round  and  round  the  lawn  in 
gloomy  conversation  punctuated  by  gloomier  si- 
lences. 

What  the  actual  history  was  Lady  Mildmay's 
narrative  showed  pretty  accurately.  Sir  Winter- 
ton's  predominant  desires,  to  do  the  handsome 
thing  and  to  meet  with  pleasant  looks,  evidently 
had  played  a  large  part.  Lady  Mildmay  blushed  a 
little  and  smiled  as  she  began  by  observing  that  Sir 
Winterton  had  distinguished  the  girl  by  some  kind 
notice;  he  liked  her,  he  always  liked  nice-spoken 
nice-looking  girls;  for  her  sake  and  her  mother's  (a 
very  decent  woman),  he  had  forgiven  Tom  many 
irregularities.  At  last  his  patience  gave  out  and 
Tom  was  prosecuted  ;  when  arrested,  Tom  had  tried 
blackmail ;  Sir  Winterton  was  not  to  be  bullied,  and 
Tom's  speech  from  the  dock  was  no  more  than  an 
outburst  of  defeated  malice. 

Then  came  on  the  scene  Sir  Winterton's  kind 
heart  and  his  predominant  desires.  He  had  made 
the  girl  a  present  to  facilitate  her  marriage  and 
had  got  the  husband  work  away  from  the  town, 
where  no  gossip  would  have  reached.  This  seemed 
enough,  and  so  Doctor  Tillman,  an  old  and  wise 
friend,  urged.  But  as  the  time  of  Tom's  release 
approached  and  his  wife  made  preparations  for 
receiving  him  in  a  cottage  just  on  the  edge  of 
Sir  Winterton's  estate,  it  became  odious  to  think 


A  HIGHLY  CORRECT  ATTITUDE.     201 

of  the  black  looks  and  scowls  which  would  embit- 
ter every  ride  in  that  direction.  "  I  want  to  for- 
get the  whole  thing,  to  get  rid  of  it,  to  blot  it  all 
out,"  said  Sir  Winterton  fretfully.  Prison  had  in- 
duced'reason  in  Tom  Sinnett ;  he  made  his  submis- 
sion and  accepted  the  liberal  help  which  carried 
him  and  his  wife,  his  daughter  and  her  husband,  to 
a  new  1'fe  across  the  seas.  Then  Sir  Winterton  had 
peace  in  his  heart  and  abroad  ;  he  had  behaved  most 
handsomely,  and  there  were  no  scowling  faces  to  re- 
mind him  of  the  hateful  episode.  He  had  met  the 
gossip  boldly  and  defiantly ;  it  had  died  away  and 
had  seemed  utterly  forgotten  and  extinct ;  the  low 
grumbles  and  not  very  seemly  jokes  which  still  lin- 
gered among  the  men  at  the  various  works  in  Hen- 
stead,  where  Tom  had  been  a  persona  grata,  never 
reached  the  ears  of  the  great  folk  at  Moors  End  ;  it 
is  perhaps  only  at  election  times  that  such  things 
become  audible  in  such  quarters. 

The  poor  lady  ended  with  a  careworn  smile ;  she 
had  suffered  much  during  the  episode,  and  perhaps 
the  more  because  her  faith  in  her  husband  had 
never  wavered. 

"  I  did  so  hope  it  was  all  over,"  she  said. 

"  That's  a  good  deal  to  hope  about  anything, 
observed  Mrs.  Baxter  rather  grimly. 

"  It  does  annoy  Winterton  so  terribly.  I'm  afraid 
it'll  quite  upset  him." 

Mrs.  Baxter  had  her  own  opinion  about  Sir  Win- 
terton ;  amid  much  that  was  favourable,  she  had  no 


202  QUISANT£. 

doubt  that  he  was  far  too  ready  to  get  on  the  high 
horse. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  Sir  Winterton'll  have 
to  do  what  many  people  have ;  he  must  swallow  his 
pride  and  tell  the  truth  about  it." 

"  I  don't  think  he  will,"  sighed  Lady  Mildmay, 
looking  out  at  her  husband's  tall  imposing  figure, 
and  marking  the  angry  energy  with  which  he  was 
impressing  his  views  on  the  Dean. 

In  this  case  at  least  Mrs.  Baxter  was  right.  Sir 
Winterton  had  got  on  the  very  highest  of  horses ; 
he  had  mounted  at  the  meeting,  flinging  back  his 
"  No,  I  won't,"  as  he  sprang  to  the  saddle ;  he  was 
firmly  seated  ;  having  got  up,  he  declared  that  he 
could  not  think  of  coming  down.  There,  for  good 
or  evil,  he  sat.  The  Dean  looked  vexed  and  puz- 
zled. 

"  This  Mr.  Williams  is  an  honest  man,  I  sup- 
pose ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  honest  as  the  day,  too  honest.  But  he's  an 
infernal  little  ass,"  said  Sir  Winterton.  "Some- 
body's got  hold  of  him  and  is  using  him,  or  he's 
heard  some  gossip  and  caught  it  up.  I  won't  say  a 
word."  And  he  went  on  to  ask  if  he  were  to  degrade 
himself  by  making  explanations  and  excuses  for  his 
personal  conduct  to  all  the  rowdies  and  loafers  of 
Henstead.  "  If  I  have  to  do  that  to  get  in,  why, 
I'll  stay  out,  and  be  hanged  to  them."  His  face 
suggested  that  his  language  would  have  been  still 
more  vigorous  but  for  a  respect  due  to  the  Dean's 
cloth. 


A  HIGHLY  CORRECT  ATTITUDE.     203 

Later  in  the  day  they  all  had  a  turn  at  him, 
his  wife  pleading  tenderly,  Mrs.  Baxter  exhorting 
trenchantly  (he  came  nearer  to  being  told  he  was  a 
fool  than  had  ever  happened  to  him  before),  the 
Dean  suggesting  possible  diplomacies,  Dr.  Tillman, 
whom  they  sent  for  as  a  reinforcement,  declaring  that 
a  few  simple  words,  authorised  by  Sir  Winterton, 
would  put  the  whole "  matter  right.  He  was  ob- 
stinate ;  he  had  taken  up  his  position  and  meant  to 
stand  by  it ;  his  conscience  was  clear  and  his  hon- 
our safe  in  his  own  keeping  ;  he  would  not  speak 
himself  and  explicitly  forbade  any  statement  to  be 
made  on  his  behalf.  Surely  some  power  fought  for 
Alexander  Quisant6  in  giving  him  an  opponent  of 
this  temper ! 

"  If  any  statement  is  to  be  made  in  reference  to 
the  matter,"  said  Sir  Winterton,  rather  red  in  the 
face  again  by  now,  "  I  confess  to  thinking  that  it 
would  come  best  from  Mr.  Quisant6.  In  fact  I 
think  that  a  few  words  would  come  very  gracefully 
from  Mr.  QuisanteV' 

Lady  Mildmay  caught  at  the  hope.  "  If  it  was 
suggested  to  him,  I'm  sure " 

"  Suggested  !  "  cried  Sir  Winterton.  "  Is  it  likely 
I  should  suggest  it  or  permit  any  of  my  friends  to 
do  so?  I  was  merely  speculating  on  what  might 
not  unnaturally  suggest  itself  to  a  gentleman  in  Mr. 
Quisante's  position." 

Mrs.  Baxter's  smile  was  very  eloquent  of  her 
opinion  on  this  particular  point.  The  Dean  frowned 
perplexedly. 


204  QUISANT£. 

"  There  are  exigencies  to  be  considered,"  he 
stammered.  "  The  views  of  his  supporters " 

"  In  a  matter  like  this  ?  "  asked  Sir  Winterton  in 
a  tone  of  lofty  surprise.  The  Dean  felt  that  he  had 
rather  committed  himself,  and  did  not  venture  to 
remind  his  sensitive  host  that  after  all  Quisant6  had 
no  knowledge  of  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  the  story, 
and  could  say  nothing  beyond  that  he  had  none. 
Mrs.  Baxter,  however,  spoke  plainly. 

"  Let  me  tell  you,"  she  said,  "  that  if  you  expect 
anything  of  the  sort  from  Alexander  Quisante,  you'll 
find  yourself  mistaken." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  agree  with  you  there,  my 
dear,"  said  the  Dean,  entering  his  usual  caveat.  "  I 
think  very  likely  Mr.  Quisant£  would  be  willing  to 
do  the  proper  thing  if  it  were  pointed  out  to  him." 

"  Pointed  out !  "  murmured  Sir  Winterton,  raising 
his  brows.  Did  gentlemen  need  to  have  the  proper 
thing  pointed  out  to  them  ?  Did  they  not  see  it 
for  themselves  and  do  it?  Nay,  one  might  look  for 
more  than  the  mere  naked  proper  thing ;  from  a 
gentleman  the  handsome  thing  was  to  be  expected, 
and  that  of  his  own  motion.  There  could,  in  Sir 
Winterton's  view,  be  no  doubt  of  what  was  in  this 
case  the  handsome  thing. 

Unhappily,  there  is  no  subject  on  which  greater 
divergence  of  opinion  exists  than  that  of  the 
proper  thing  to  be  done  under  given  circum- 
stances. Here  was  Sir  Winterton  holding  one  view ; 
Japhet  Williams  held  another,  and  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  a  section  of  the  inhabitants  of  Henstead 


A  HIGHLY  CORRECT  ATTITUDE.     205 

adopted  a  third.  Sir  Winterton's  cry  was  honour, 
Japhet's  was  duty ;  the  inhabitants  would  have  dif- 
fered rather  even  among  themselves  as  to  how  to 
describe  their  motive ;  party  spirit,  curiosity,  the 
zest  of  a  personal  question,  interest  in  a  promising 
quarrel,  mere  mischief,  all  had  a  hand  in  producing 
the  applause  which  greeted  Japhet  when  he  rose 
the  next  evening  and  wi-th  absolute  imperturbability 
repeated  the  same  question  as  nearly  as  possible  in 
the  same  words.  Sir  Winterton's  answer  was  not 
in  the  same  words,  but  entirely  to  the  same  effect. 
"  I've  answered  that  question  once,  and  I  won't  an- 
swer it  again,"  he  said.  Then  came  the  tumult,  and 
after  that  a  dull  unenthusiastic  ending,  and  the  drive 
off  through  a  grinning  crowd,  which  enjoyed  Sir 
Winterton's  fury  and  added  to  it  by  a  few  hateful 
cries  of  "Where's  Susy  Sinnett?"  From  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town  till  his  own  gates  were  reached 
Sir  Winterton  did  not  speak  to  his  wife.  Then  he 
turned  to  her  and  said  very  courteously  but  most 
decisively, 

"  Marion  dear,  you  will  oblige  me  by  not  accom- 
panying me  to  any  more  meetings  at  present  and 
by  not  visiting  the  town  just  now.  I  don't  choose 
to  expose  you  to  any  more  such  scenes.  I  can't 
teach  these  fellows  to  respect  a  lady's  presence,  but 
I  can  protect  my  wife  by  ensuring  her  absence/' 
He  looked  very  chivalrous  and  very  handsome  as 
he  made  this  little  speech.  But  his  wife's  heart 
sank  ;  such  an  attitude  could  mean  nothing  but 
defeat. 


QUISANT£. 

"  Can't  you  help  us  ?  "  she  implored  of  the 
Dean,  when  she  had  got  him  alone  and  told  him  of 
this  new  development  of  her  husband's  pride  or 
temper.  It  was  evident  that  Japhet  Williams 
meant,  as  he  had  said,  to  go  on  putting  his  plain 
question  till  he  got  a  plain  answer,  and  so  long  as 
he  put  his  question,  Lady  Mildmay  was  not  to  be 
present.  How  soon  would  Henstead  understand 
that  the  gentleman  who  sought  to  be  its  member 
openly  declared  that  he  did  not  consider  it  a  fit  place 
for  his  wife  to  enter? 

"  Something  must  really  be  done,"  said  the  Dean 
nervously.  "  At  all  hazards."  They  both  knew 
that  "  at  all  hazards  "  meant  in  spite  of  the  pro- 
hibition and  in  face  of  the  wrath  of  Sir  Winter- 
ton. 

Indeed  this  impulsive  gentleman,  seated  on  his 
high  horse,  was  in  urgent  need  of  being  saved  from 
himself.  Hitherto  Japhet's  importunity  and  the 
attacks  of  less  conscientious  opponents  had  had  the 
natural  effect  of  rousing  his  supporters  to  greater 
enthusiasm  and  greater  zeal.  When  his  fresh  step 
began  to  be  understood,  when  Lady  Mildmay  came 
with  him  no  more,  and  it  dawned  upon  Henstead 
that  Sir  Winterton  would  not  bring  her,  the  very 
supporters  felt  themselves  offended.  Were  a*  few 
ribald  cries  and  the  folly  of  a  wrong-headed  old 
Japhet  Williams  to  outweigh  all  their  loyalty  and  de- 
votion? Was  the  town  to  be  judged  by  its  rowdies  ? 
They  could  not  but  remember  that  Lady  May  QuL 
sant£  sat  smiling  through  the  hottest  meetings,  and 


A  HIGHLY  CORRECT  ATTITUDE.     207 

one  evening  had  at  the  last  moment  saved  her  hus- 
band's platform  from  being  stormed  by  sitting,  com- 
posed and  immovable,  in  the  very  middle  of  it  till 
the  rioters  came  to  a  stand  a  foot  from  her,  and 
then  retreated  cowed  before  her  laughter.  That  was 
the  sort  of  thing  Henstead  liked  ;  to  be  told  that  it 
was  unworthy  of  Lady  Mildmay's  presence  was  not 
what  it  liked.  A  strong  deputation  came  out  to 
Sir  Winterton  ;  he  replied  from  his  high  horse  ;  the 
deputation  averred  that  they  could  not  answer  for 
the  consequences  ;  Sir  Winterton  said  he  did  not 
care  a  rush  about  the  consequences  ;  the  deputation 
ventured  timidly  to  hint  that  an  excessive  care  to 
shield  Lady  Mildmay's  ears  from  any  mention  of 
the  Sinnett  affair  might  be  misunderstood  ;  Sir 
Winterton  said  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with 
that ;  his  first  duty  was  to  his  wife,  his  second  to 
himself.  The  deputation  retired  downcast  and 
annoyed. 

"  If  you're  going  to  do  anything,  Dan,  you'd 
better  do  it  at  once,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter. 

The  Dean,  resolved  to  risk  Sir  Winterton's  anger 
in  Sir  Winterton's  interest,  did  something;  he 
wrote  covertly  to  Jimmy  Benyon  at  the  Bull,  beg- 
ging him  to  be  riding  on  the  Henstead  road  at  ten 
o'clock  the  next  morning  ;  the  Dean  would  take  a 
walk  and  the  pair  would  meet,  as  it  was  to  seem, 
accidentally  ;  nothing  had  been  said  to  Sir  Winter- 
ton,  nothing  was  to  be  said  at  present  to  Mr.  Qui- 
sant6.  The  Dean  was,  in  fact,  most  carefully  un- 
official, and  in  no  small  fright  besides ;  yet  he  was 


208  QUISANT£. 

also  curious  to  know  how  this  new  phase  of  the  fight 
was  regarded  at  the  Quisante  headquarters. 

Jimmy  came  punctually,  greeted  the  Dean  most 
heartily,  and  listened  to  all  that  he  said.  The  Dean 
could  not  quite  make  out  his  mood  ;  he  seemed  un- 
comfortable and  vexed,  but  he  was  not  embarrassed, 
and  was  able  to  state  what  the  Dean  took  to  be  the 
Quisant^  position  with  so  much  clearness  that  the 
Dean  could  not  help  wondering  whether  he  had  re- 
ceived instructions. 

"  Quisant£'s  line  has  been  to  take  absolutely  no 
notice  of  the  whole  thing,"  said  Jimmy.  "  He 
knows  nothing  about  it,  and  has  had  nothing  to  do 
with  its  being  brought  forward  ;  he's  never  men- 
tioned it,  and  he  won't.  But  on  the  other  hand  he 
doesn't  feel  called  upon  to  fight  Mildmay's  battle, 
or  to  offend  his  own  supporters  by  defending  a 
man  who  won't  defend  himself.  As  for  this  business 
about  Lady  Mildmay,  if  Mildmay  likes  to  make 
such  an  ass  of  himself  he  must  take  the  conse- 
quences." 

The  Dean  felt  that  the  Quisant£  case  even  put 
thus  bluntly  by  Jimmy  was  very  strong  ;  Quisant£'s 
deft  tongue  and  skilful  brain  could  make  it  appear 
irresistible.  Strategically  retiring  from  the  ground 
of  strict  justice,  he  made  an  appeal  to  the  feelings. 

"  Surely  neither  Mr.  Quisant6  himself  nor  any  of 
you  would  wish  to  win  through  such  an  occurrence 
as  this?  That  would  be  no  satisfaction  to  you." 

"  Of  course  we'd  rather  win  without  it,"  said 
Jimmy  irritably.  "  It's  not  our  fault.  Go  to  Japhet 


A  HIGHLY  CORRECT  ATTITUDE.     209 

Williams,  or,  best  of  all,  persuade  Mildmay  not  to 
be  a  fool.  Why  won't  he  answer?  " 

"  Have  you  had  any  talk  with  Quisant£  about 
it?" 

"Very  little.  He  thinks  pretty  much  what  I've 
said." 

"  Or  with  Lady  May  ? "  asked  the  Dean  with  a 
direct  glance. 

"  She's  never  mentioned  it  to  me." 

"  The  whole  affair  is  deplorable." 

"  I  don't  see  what  we  can  do."  Jimmy's  tone 
was  rather  defiant. 

The  Dean  fell  into  thought  and,  as  the  result 
thereof,  made  a  proposition  ;  it  was  very  much  that 
suggestion  to  Quisant£  on  which  Sir  Winterton  had 
frowned  so  scornfully. 

"  If,"  said  he,  "  I  could  persuade  Sir  Winterton 
to  give  Mr.  Quisant6  a  private  assurance  that  the 
scandal  is  entirely  baseless,  would  Mr.  Quisante" 
state  publicly  that  he  was  convinced  of  its  falsity 
and  did  not  wish  it  to  influence  the  electors  in  any 
way  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  would,"  said  Jimmy. 

"  I  think  it  would  be  only  the  proper  thing  for 
him  to  do,"  said  the  Dean  rather  warmly. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  Why  can't  Mildmay 
say  it  for  himself?  But  I'll  ask  Quisant6,  if  you 
like." 

The  Dean  was  only  too  conscious  of  the  weakness 
of  his  cause  ;  he  became  humble  again  in  thanking 
Jimmy  for  this  small  promise.  "  And  Mr.  Qui- 


QUISANT£. 

sant6'll  be  glad  to  have  done  it,  I  know,  whatever 
the  issue  of  the  fight  may  be,"  he  ended.  The  re- 
mark received  for  answer  no  more  than  a  smile  from 
Jimmy.  Jimmy  was  not  sure  that  among  the  stress 
of  emotions  filling  Quisant6's  heart  in  case  of  defeat 
there  would  be  room  for  any  consoling  consciousness 
of  moral  rectitude.  Perhaps  Jimmy  himself  would 
not  care  much  about  such  a  solatium.  He  wanted 
to  win  and  he  wanted  Quisante  to  win  ;  such  was 
the  effect  of  being  much  with  Quisante ;  and  in  this 
matter  at  least,  so  far  as  Jimmy's  knowledge  went, 
his  champion  had  acted  with  perfect  correctness. 
At  other  times  Jimmy  might  have  been,  like  Sir 
Winterton,  apt  to  exact  something  a  little  beyond 
correctness,  but  now  the  spirit  of  the  fight  was  on 
him. 

The  Dean  returned  with  the  rather  scanty  results 
of  his  mission,  and  after  luncheon  took  his  courage 
in  both  hands  arid  told  Sir  Winterton  what  he  had 
done.  But  for  his  years  and  his  station,  Sir  Win- 
terton would,  at  the  first  blush,  have  called  him 
impertinent ;  the  Dean  divined  the  suppressed 
epithet  and  defended  himself  with  skill,  but,  alas, 
not  without  verging  on  the  confines  of  truth.  To 
say  that  he  had  happened  to  meet  Jimmy  Benyon 
was  to  give  less  than  its  due  credit  to  his  own 
ingenuity  ;  to  say  that  Jimmy  and  he  had  agreed  on 
the  proper  thing  was  rather  to  interpret  than  to 
record  Jimmy's  brief  and  not  very  sanguine  utter- 
ances. However  the  Dean's  motive  was  very  good, 
and  before  the  meal  ended  Sir  Winterton  forgave 


A  HIGHLY  CORRECT  ATTITUDE.     211 

him,  while  still  sternly  negativing  the  course  which 
his  diplomacy  suggested.  In  fact  Sir  Winterton 
was  very  hard  to  manage ;  the  Dean  understood 
the  Quisante"  position  better  and  better  ;  Mrs.  Baxter 
gave  up  her  efforts ;  she  had  an  almost  exaggerated 
belief  in  the  inutility  of  braying  fools  in  a  mortar; 
she  was  content  to  show  them  the  mortar,  and  if 
that  were  not  enough  to  leave  them  alone.  Only 
the  wife  persevered,  for  she  thought  neither  of 
herself  nor  of  what  was  right,  but  only  of  what 
might  serve  her  husband.  To  the  meetings  he 
would  not  speak,  to  Quisante"  he  might  be  got  to 
speak ;  she  would  not  let  him  alone  while  there  was 
a  chance  of  it.  And  at  last  she  prevailed,  not  by 
convincing  his  reason  (which  indeed  was  little  in- 
volved in  the  matter  either  way),  not  by  taming  his 
pride,  and  not  by  pointing  to  his  interest,  but  by 
the  old  illogical,  perhaps  in  the  strictest  view  im- 
moral, appeal — "  For  my  sake,  because  I  ask  you 
for  your  love  of  me  !  "  For  his  love  of  her  Sir 
Winterton  consented  to  write  a  private  note  to 
Alexander  Quisante",  stating  for  his  own  satisfaction 
and  for  his  opponent's  information  the  outline  of 
the  true  facts  of  the  Sinnett  affair.  Sir  Winterton 
disliked  his  task  very  much  but,  having  to  do  it,  he 
did  it  as  he  did  everything,  as  a  gentleman  would, 
frankly,  simply,  cordially,  with  an  obvious  trust  in 
Quisant£'s  chivalry,  good  faith,  and  reluctance  to 
fight  with  any  weapons  that  were  not  stainless. 

"  Now  we've  put  it  straight,"  said  the  Dean  glee- 
fully.    "  He's  bound  to  mention  your  note  and   to 


212  QUISANT£. 

accept  your  account,  and  if  he  accepts  it,  his  sup- 
porters can't  help  themselves,  they  must  do  the 
same."  Sir  Winterton  agreed  that,  distasteful  as 
this  quasi-appeal  to  his  opponent  had  been,  it  could 
not  fail  to  have  the  beneficial  results  which  the 
Dean  forecast.  There  was  more  cheerfulness  at 
Moors  End  that  evening  than  had  been  seen  since 
Japhet  Williams  rose  from  the  body  of  the  hall,  a 
small  but  determined  Accusing  Angel. 

It  is  not  so  easy  to  put  straight  what  has  once 
gone  crooked,  nor  so  safe  to  undertake  to  advise 
other  folks,  however  much  the  task  may  by  habit 
seem  to  lose  half  its  seriousness.  In  his  heart  the 
Dean  was  thinking  that  he  had  "  cornered  "  Qui- 
sant£,  and  Sir  Winterton  was  hoping  that  he  had 
combined  the  advantages  of  pliancy  with  the  privi- 
lege of  pride.  The  note  that  Quisante1  wrote  in 
answer  did  nothing  to  disturb  this  comfortable  state 
of  feeling — unless  indeed  any  danger  were  fore- 
shadowed in  the  last  line  or  two  ;  "  While,  as  I  have 
said,  most  ready  to  accept  your  assurance,  and  de- 
sirous, as  I  have  always  been,  of  keeping  all  purely 
personal  questions  in  the  background,  I  do  not  feel 
myself  called  upon  to  express  any  opinion  on  the 
course  which  you  have,  doubtless  after  full  consider- 
ation, adopted  in  regard  to  the  requests  for  a  public 
explanation  which  have  been  addressed  to  you  by 
duly  qualified  electors  of  the  borough."  The  Dean 
felt  a  little  uneasy  when  that  sentence  was  read  out 
to  him  ;  was  it  possible  that  he  had  underrated 
Quisant6's  resources  and  not  perceived  quite  how 


A  HIGHLY  CORRECT  ATTITUDE.     213 

many  ways  of  escaping  from  a  corner  that  talented 
gentleman  might  discover  ?  Yet  there  was  nothing 
to  quarrel  with  in  the  sentence ;  at  the  outside  it 
was  a  courteous  intimation  of  a  difference  of  opinion 
and  of  the  view  (held  by  every  man  in  the  place  ex- 
cept Sir  Winterton  himself)  that  a  simple  explanation 
on  a  public  occasion  would  have  done  Sir  Winter- 
ton's  honour  no  harm  and  his  cause  a  great  deal  of 
good. 

Such  was  the  private  answer ;  the  public  refer- 
ence was  no  less  neat.  First  came  a  ready  and  am- 
ple acceptance  of  the  explanation  which  Sir  Winter- 
ton  had  given.  "  I  accept  it  unreservedly,  I  do  not 
repeat  it  only  because  it  was  given  to  me  privately." 
Then  followed  an  expression  of  gratitude  for  the 
manly  and  straightforward  way  in  which  the  speaker 
felt  himself  to  have  been  treated  by  his  opponent ; 
then  there  was  an  expression  of  hope  that  these 
personal  matters  might  disappear  from  the  contest. 
"  Had  I  been  sensitive,  I  in  my  turn  might  have 
found  matter  for  complaint,  but  I  was  content  to 
place  myself  in  your  hands,  trusting  to  your  good 
sense  and  fairness."  (Sir  Winterton  had  not  been  so 
content.)  "  I  trust  that  the  episode  may  be  regarded 
as  at  an  end."  Then  a  pause  and — "  It  is  not  for 
me,  as  I  have  already  observed  to  my  honourable 
opponent,  to  express  any  judgment  on  the  course 
which  he  has  seen  fit  to  adopt.  I  have  only  to  accept 
his  word,  which  I  do  unhesitatingly,  and  it  is  no 
part  of  my  duty  to  ask  why  he  preferred  to  make 
his  explanation  to  one  who  is  trying  to  prevent  him 


QUISANT£. 

from  sitting  in  Parliament  rather  than  to  those 
whom  he  seeks  to  represent  in  that  high  assembly." 

This  was  said  gravely  and  was  much  cheered.  As 
the  cheering  went  on,  a  smile  gradually  bent  the 
speaker's  broad  expressive  mouth  ;  the  crowded 
benches  became  silent,  waiting  the  fulfilment  of  the 
smile's  promise.  A  roguish  look  came  into  Qui- 
sante^s  face,  he  glanced  at  his  audience,  then  at  his 
friends  on  the  platform,  lastly  at  his  wife  who  sat 
on  the  other  side  of  the  chairman's  table.  He  spoke 
lower  than  was  his  wont,  colloquially,  almost  care- 
lessly, with  an  amused  intonation.  "  At  any  rate," 
he  said,  "  I  trust  that  Henstead  may  once  more  be 
thought  worthy  of  the  presence  of—  He  paused, 
spread  out  his  hands,  and  sank  his  voice  in  mock 
humility — "of  other  ladies  besides — my  wife." 

It  was  well  done.  May's  ready  laugh  was  but  the 
first  of  a  chorus,  and  Quisant£,  sitting  down,  knew 
that  his  shaft  had  sped  home  when  somebody  cried, 
"  Three  cheers  for  Lady  May  Quisant£  !  "  and  they 
gave  them  again  and  again,  all  standing  on  their 
feet.  Alas  for  the  Dean !  For  some  men  there 
are  many  ways  out  of  a  corner. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

NOT   SUPERHUMAN. 

"  I  DON'T  set  up  for  being  superhuman,"  said 
Alexander  Quisante"  with  a  shrug  and  a  smile  at  his 
sister-in-law,  "  and  I  should  very  soon  be  told  of  my 
mistake  if  I  did.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  putting 
the  story  about.  I  never  countenanced  it  in  any 
way.  But  since  it  got  about,  since  Mildmay  chose 
to  give  himself  airs  and  make  a  fool  of  himself,  and 
then  come  to  me  to  get  him  out  of  his  trouble,  I 
thought  myself  entitled  to  give  him  one  little  dig." 

"Of  course  you  were,"  agreed  Fanny. 

"  And  if  they  choose  to  decide  the  election  on 
that  instead  of  on  the  Government  policy,  why,  in 
the  first  place  we  can't  help  it,  and  in  the  second  we 
needn't  talk  about  it."  He  paused  and  then  added 
with  greater  gravity,  "  I  have  nothing  to  reproach 
myself  with  in  the  matter." 

"  What's  Mr.  Williams  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  made  one  solemn  protest  and  now,  at 
my  request,  he'll  hold  his  tongue." 

"  He's  done  all  the  mischief,  though,"  said  Jimmy 
Benyon  with  much  satisfaction. 

It  was  true  enough,  and  the  triumph  at  the  Bull 
equalled  the  depression  at  Moors  End,  where  the 

215 


216  QUISANT£. 

Dean  was  aghast  at  the  result  of  his  diplomacy,  and 
Sir  Winterton  began  to  perceive  that  he  had  vindi- 
cated his  honour  at  the  cost  of  his  good  sense,  and 
his  dignity  at  the  price  of  his  popularity.  It  was  not 
Henstead's  moral  sense  that  was  against  him  now, 
but  that  far  more  formidable  enemy,  Henstead's 
wounded  vanity.  The  best  judges  refused  to  esti- 
mate how  many  votes  that  ride  on  the  high  horse 
was  likely  to  cost  him  ;  but  all  agreed  that  the  bill 
would  be  heavy  ;  even  Smiley,  his  own  agent,  shook 
a  rueful  head  over  the  probable  figure.  And  all 
this  advantage  had  accrued  to  the  Quisant£  faction 
without  involving  any  reproach  or  any  charge  of 
unfair  tactics  ;  rather  were  they  praised  for  mod- 
eration, magnanimity,  and  good-nature. 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  Jimmy  whispered  to  Fanny, 
"  I  never  felt  sure  that  Quisant£  would  treat  it  in 
such  a  gentlemanly  way." 

"  No,  neither  did  I,"  Fanny  confessed.  "  I'm  so 
glad  about  it." 

"  He's  rather  proud  of  himself,  though,"  chuckled 
Jimmy. 

"Yes,  I  know.  Well,  we  mustn't  be  too  critical," 
urged  Fanny.  His  public  demeanour  had  been 
beyond  reproach,  and  after  all  even  persons  of  more 
delicate  feeling  and  more  exalted  position  than 
Quisant£  are  apt  to  plume  their  feathers  a  little  in 
the  family  circle. 

In  the  whirl  of  these  last  few  days  there  was  how- 
ever little  time  for  scrutinising  the  fine  shades  of 
manner  or  speculating  on  nice  points  of  conscience. 


NOT  SUPERHUMAN.  217 

They  were  all  worked  to  death,  they  were  all  in- 
flamed with  enthusiasm  and  the  determination  to 
win.  As  was  only  becoming,  Quisante's  wife  was 
the  most  enthusiastic  and  the  most  resolute  ;  a 
thing  not  seeming  so  natural  to  herself  was  that  she 
was  also  happier  than  she  had  ever  been  since  her 
marriage.  As  the  fight  grew  hotter,  Quisante  grew 
greater  in  her  eyes  ;  he  had  less  time  to  make  pos- 
tures, she  less  leisure  to  criticise  ;  if  he  forgot  him- 
self in  what  he  was  doing,  she  could  come  near  to 
forgetting  the  side  of  him  she  disliked  in  an  admi- 
ration of  the  qualities  that  attracted  her.  His 
praises  were  in  men's  mouths  beyond  Henstead  ; 
letters  of  congratulation  came  from  great  folk,  and 
Quisant^  was  told  that  his  speeches  had  more  than 
a  local  audience  and  more  than  a  local  influence. 
Sympathy  joined  with  admiration  ;  he  was  not  only 
successful,  he  was  brave  ;  for  it  was  a  serious  ques- 
tion whether  his  body  and  his  nerves  would  last  out, 
and  every  night  found  him  utterly  exhausted  and 
prostrate.  Yet  he  never  spared  himself,  he  was 
wherever  work  was  to  be  done,  refused  no  call,  and 
surrendered  not  an  inch  to  his  old  and  hated  enemy, 
the  physical  weakness  which  had  always  hindered 
him.  May  wrote  to  Miss  Quisant£  that  he  was 
"wonderful,  wonderful,  wonderful."  There  she 
paused,  and  added  after  a  moment's  thought,  "  It's 
something  to  be  his  wife."  And  to  Mr.  Foster  she 
said,  "  They  must  elect  him,  they  can't  help  it,  can 
they  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  think  we  shall  win  now,"  said  old  Foster, 


QUISANT£. 

smiling,  but  directing  a  rather  inquisitive  glance  at 
her.  "  Japhet  Williams  has  helped  us  ;  not  so  much 
as  Sir  Winterton  himself,  though." 

May's  face  fell  a  little.  "  I  didn't  mean  that," 
she  said.  "  Oh,  I  suppose  I  want  to  win  anyhow, 
but  I'd  much  rather  not  win  through  that." 

"  Must  take  what  we  can  get,"  murmured  Foster, 
quite  resignedly. 

"  I  suppose  so ;  and  it's  not  as  if  my  husband,  or 
you,  or  any  of  his  friends  had  taken  any  part  in  it." 

The  inquisitive  glance  ceased  ;  Foster  had  found 
out  the  answer  to  what  it  had  asked ;  there  were 
limits  to  the  confidence  which  existed  between  Lady 
May  Quisant£  and  her  husband.  But  he  only 
smiled  comfortably ;  Quisant£  wouldn't  talk,  he 
himself  was  safe,  and,  if  anything  had  cropped  up 
in  talk  between  him  and  Japhet,  his  skill  and 
Japhet's  vanity  had  ensured  that  the  little  man 
should  think  himself  the  initiator,  inventor,  and 
sole  agent  in  the  whole  affair. 

"  We're  not  responsible  for  Japhet  Williams," 
said  he.  "  His  vote's  safe  for  us  now,  though,  and 
it  means  a  few  besides  his  own." 

"  I  sometimes  wonder,"  mused  May,  "  whether 
anybody  at  an  election  ever  votes  one  way  and  not 
the  other  simply  because  he  thinks  that  way  right 
and  the  other  wrong."  She  laughed,  adding,  "  You 
don't  get  the  impression  that  they  ever  do,  can- 
vassing and  going  about  like  this." 

"  Must  allow  for  local  feelings,  Lady  May." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  and  everybody  has  feelings,  and 


NOT  SUPERHUMAN.  219 

I  suppose  every  place  is  local.  You  say  a  lot  of 
people'll  vote  for  us  because  Sir  Winterton  wouldn't 
let  Lady  Mildmay  come  to  the  town  ?  " 

"  A  better  stroke  for  us  than  any  even  Mr.  Qui- 
sant£  has  done." 

"  And  there's  something  like  that  in  every  con- 
stituency, I  suppose  !  How  do  we  get  governed 
even  as  well  as  we  do? " 

Foster  looked  thoughtful  and  nursed  his  foot 
(in  which  he  had  a  touch  of  the  gout).  "  It's  all 
under  God,"  he  said  gravely.  "  He  turns  things  to 
account  in  ways  we  can't  foresee,  Lady  May." 
Was  it  possible  that  he  was  remembering  the  pecu- 
liar qualities  of  Mr.  Japhet  Williams  ?  May  did  not 
laugh,  for  Mr.  Foster  was  obviously  sincere,  but  she 
looked  at  him  with  surprise ;  his  religion  came  in 
such  odd  flashes  across  the  homely  tints  of  his 
worldly  wisdom  and  placid  acceptance  of  things  and 
men  as  he  happened  to  find  them.  Henstead  was 
not  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven,  and  he  did  not  pre- 
tend to  think  it  wise  to  act  on  the  assumption  that 
it  was.  Like  Quisant£,  he  did  not  set  up  for  being 
superhuman — nor  set  other  people  up  for  it  either. 
May  felt  that  there  were  lessons  to  be  learnt  here  ; 
nay,  that  she  was  making  some  progress  in  them  ; 
though  she  wondered  now  and  then  what  Weston 
Marchmont  would  think  of  the  lessons  and  of  her 
progress  in  them. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,"  she  went  on,  "  that  I'm 
afraid  one  has  to  say  a  lot  of  things  that  are  not 
exactly  quite  true." 


220  QUISANTE. 

"  Truer  than  the  other  side,"  Mr.  Foster  affirmed 
emphatically,  his  corpulence  seeming  to  give  weight 
to  the  dictum  as  he  threw  himself  forward  in  his 
chair. 

"  Relative  truth  !  "  laughed  May.    "  Like  No.  77  ?  " 

"You  must  ask  Mr.  Quisant6  about  that." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  won't.  I'll  listen  to  his  speeches 
about  it."  She  grew  grave  as  she  went  on.  "  I've 
only  asked  him  about  one  thing  all  through  the 
election.  I  had  to  ask  him  about  that." 

"  Ah  !  "  murmured  Foster,  cautiously,  vaguely, 
safely. 

"  This  wretched  story  about  Sir  Winterton,  you 
know.  And  I  got  into  terrible  trouble  by  my 
question."  She  laughed  a  little.  "  He  doesn't  as 
a  rule  scold  me,  you  know,  but  he  really  did.  I 
was  very  much  surprised.  Fancy  boring  you  with 
this  !  Well,  I  asked  him  if  he'd  had  anything  to  do 
with  reviving  the  story.  I  asked  him  right  straight 
out.  Did  you  think  I  was  like  that,  Mr.  Foster?" 

"  Pretty  well,  pretty  well,"  said  old  Foster  ;  he 
was  smiling,  but  he  was  watching  her  again. 

"  Was  it  insulting  ?  Well,  you  see She 

stopped  abruptly ;  Foster  was  not,  after  all,  Aunt 
Maria,  and  she  could  not  tell  him  how  it  was  that 
she  might  ask  her  husband  questions  that  sounded 
insulting.  "Anyhow  he  was  very  much  offended." 

Foster  still  nursed  his  foot,  and  now  he  shifted  a 
little  in  his  chair. 

"  He  gave  me  his  word  directly,  but  told  me  he 
was  very  much  hurt  at  my  asking  him."  She  smiled 


NOT  SUPERHUMAN.  221 

again.  "  There's  a  confession  of  a  conjugal  quarrel 
for  you,  Mr.  Foster.  Don't  talk  about  it,  or  Mr. 
Smiley  will  have  a  caricature  of  us  throwing  the 
furniture  at  one  another.  I've  been  very  humble 
ever  since,  I  assure  you." 

Mr.  Foster  chuckled.  May  imagined  that  his 
fancy  was  touched  by  her  suggestion  of  the  carica- 
ture ;  in  fact  he  was  picturing  Alexander  Quisant£'s 
indignant  disclaimer. 

"  Don't  tell  him  I  said  anything  to  you  about  it," 
she  added. 

"  You  may  be  sure  I  won't,"  he  promised. 

It  would  not  have  been  out  of  harmony  with  Mr. 
Foster's  general  theological  position  to  consider  the 
sudden  and  serious  development  of  his  gout  as  a 
direct  judgment  on  him  for  a  diplomacy  that  per- 
haps overstepped  legitimate  limits,  and  in  another 
man's  case  he  might  have  adopted  such  a  view  with 
considerable  complacency.  When,  however,  he  was 
laid  up  and  placed  hors  du  combat  in  the  last  three 
critical  days,  he  needed  all  his  faith  to  reconcile  him 
to  one  of  the  most  unfathomable  instances  of  the 
workings  of  Providence.  His  grumbles  were  loud 
and  long,  and  the  directions  which  he  sent  from  his 
sick  bed  were  tinged  with  irritability.  For  at  last 
the  other  side  had  come  to  its  senses  ;  Sir  Winterton 
was  affable  again,  Lady  Mildmay  was  canvassing, 
and  Mr.  Smiley  had  high  hopes.  Despondency 
would  have  fallen  on  Foster's  spirit  but  for  the  re- 
port of  Quisante's  exploits,  performed  in  tne  teeth 
of  the  orders  of  that  same  Dr.  Tillman  who  had 


222  QUISANT£. 

given  Sir  Winterton  such  excellent  unprofessional 
advice  touching  the  affair  of  Tom  Sinnett.  He 
gave  Quisant6  just  as  good  counsel,  and  with  just 
as  little  result.  Then  he  tried  Quisant^'s  wife  and 
found  in  her  what  he  thought  a  hardness  or  an  insen- 
sibility, or,  if  that  were  an  unjust  view,  a  sort  of  fatal- 
ism which  forbade  her  to  seek  to  interfere,  and  re- 
duced her  to  being  a  spectator  of  her  husband's 
doings  and  destiny  rather  than  a  partner  in  them. 

"  How  can  he  lie  by  now  ?  "  she  asked.  "  It's  im- 
possible ;  he  must  see  this  out  whatever  happens." 
Quisant6  had  said  exactly  the  same  thing,  but  his 
wife's  perfect  agreement  in  it  seemed  strange  to  the 
doctor.  It  was  making  the  man's  success  more  than 
the  man  ;  there  was  too  much  of  the  Spartan  wife 
about  it,  without  the  Spartan  wife's  excuse  of  pa- 
triotism. Something  of  these  feelings  found  ex- 
pression in  the  look  with  which  he  regarded  May, 
and  he  allowed  himself  to  express  them  more  freely 
to  Lady  Mildmay,  who  would  have  disappointed 
the  most  important  meeting  sooner  than  face  the 
risk  of  Sir  Winterton's  taking  cold.  He  told  her  how 
May  had  said,  "  He  won't  stand  being  coddled," 
rind  then  had  added,  with  a  frankness  which  the 
doctor  had  not  become  accustomed  to,  "  Besides  I 
should  never  do  it.  We  aren't  in  the  least  like  that 
to  one  another." 

"  I  felt  rather  sorry  for  the  man,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  It's  as  if  he  was  a  racehorse,  and  they  didn't  think 
so  much  about  him  as  about  a  win  for  the  stable." 

"  Do  you  like  him  ?  "  asked  Lady  Mildmay,  merely 


NOT  SUPERHUMAN.  223 

in  natural  curiosity.  But  the  doctor  started  a  little 
as  he  answered,  "  Why,  no,  I  don't  like  him  at  all." 
And  as  he  drove  home  he  was  thoughtful. 

"  Well,  here  we  are  at  last !  "  said  Jimmy  Benyon 
as  he  sat  down  to  breakfast  on  the  morning  of  the 
polling  day.  "  I'm  told  Mildmay's  people  were 
asking  for  six  to  four  last  night.  Where's  Qui- 
sant£  ?  " 

"  He  went  out  just  before  eight,  to  catch  some  of 
the  men  who  work  on  the  line  and  can't  be  back  to 
vote  in  the  evening,"  said  May. 

"  Lord  !  "  sighed  Jimmy  in  a  self-reproachful  tone  ; 
it  was  past  nine  now,  and  he  was  only  just  out  of 
bed.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Drive  and  bow  and  smile  and  shake  hands,"  said 
May.  "  And  you're  going  to  and  fro  in  a  wagonette 
of  Mr.  Williams' — without  any  springs,  you  know. 
And  Mr.  Dunn's  going  to  take  Fanny  in  one  of  his 
waggons  ;  she'll  have  to  sit  on  a  plank  without  a  back 
all  day,  so  I  told  her  to  stay  in  bed  till  she  has  to 
start  at  ten." 

"  It's  a  devilish  difficult  question,"  said  Jimmy 
meditatively,  "  whether  it's  all  worth  it,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  it's  worth  more  than  that,"  said  May  lightly, 
as  she  sprang  up  and  put  on  her  hat.  "  It's  worth — 
well,  almost  anything.  Six  to  four?  They  expect 
us  to  win  then  ?" 

"  By  a  neck,  yes."  He  glanced  at  her  and  added 
rather  uneasily,  "  They  say  friend  Japhet's  done 
the  trick  for  us."  She  made  no  answer,  and  he  went 
on  hastily,  "  Old  Foster's  still  in  bed,  and  the  waiter 


224  QUISANT£. 

says  he's  written  five  notes  to  your  husband  already 
— a  regular  row  of  them  in  the  bar,  you  know." 

"  Last  instructions  ?  " 

"  Oh,  somebody  else  to  be  nobbled,  don't  you 
know  ;  some  fellow  who  wants  to  marry  his  deceased 
wife's  sister — or  else  is  afraid  he'll  have  to  if  they 
pass  the  Bill.  And  there's  the  butcher  in  Market 
Street  who's  got  some  trouble  about  slaughter- 
houses that  I'm  simply  hanged  if  I  can  understand. 
I  jawed  with  him  for  half-an-hour  yesterday,  and 
then  didn't  hook  him  safe." 

"  Alexander  must  find  time  to  go  and  hook  him," 
said  May,  smiling.  "  Alexander'll  be  great  on 
slaughter-houses." 

"  And  at  the  last  minute  Smiley's  been  hinting 
something  about  Mildmay  giving  a  bit  of  land  to 
extend  the  Recreation  Ground.  A  beastly  un- 
scrupulous fellow  I  call  Smiley." 

"Oh,  poor  Mr.  Smiley  !     He  wants  to  win." 

"  He  might  play  fair,  though." 

"  Might  he  ?  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  so.  We've 
played  fair  anyhow — pretty  fair,  haven't  we  ?  " 

"Rather!" 

"  You  really  think  so,  Jimmy  ?  "  She  was  serious 
now;  Jimmy  reached  out  his  hand  and  touched 
hers  for  a  moment ;  he  divined  that  she  was  asking 
him  for  a  verdict  and  was  anxious  what  it  might 
be. 

"Rather!"  he  said  again.  "That's  all  right. 
We've  kept  to  the  rules  square  enough." 

"Then  I'm  off  to  bow  and  smile  !  "  she  cried.   As 


NOT  SUPERHUMAN.  225 

she  went  by  she  touched  his  hand  again.  "  Thanks, 
Jimmy,"  she  said. 

Jimmy,  left  alone,  stretched  himself,  sighed,  and 
lit  a  cigar  ;  they  were  nearly  out  of  the  wood  now, 
and  they  had  managed  to  play  pretty  fair.  For  his 
own  sake  he  was  glad,  since  he  had  been  mixed  up 
in  the  campaign ;  he  had  perception  enough  to  be 
far  more  glad  for  May  Quisant6's. 

Through  all  the  fever  of  that  day  the  same  glad- 
ness and  relief  were  in  her  heart  in  a  form  a  thou- 
sandfold more  intense.  They  enabled  her  to  do 
her  bowing  and  smiling,  to  hope  eagerly,  to  work 
unceasingly,  to  be  gay  and  happy  in  the  excitement 
of  fighting  and  the  prospect  of  victory.  She  could 
put  aside  the  memory  of  Tom  Sinnett  ;  they  had 
not  been  to  blame ;  let  that  affair  be  set  off  against 
Smiley 's  hypothetical  extension  of  the  Recreation 
Ground.  She  felt  that  she  could  face  people,  above 
all  that  she  could  face  the  Mildmays  when  the  time 
came  for  her  to  meet  them  at  the  declaration  of  the 
poll.  And  as  regarded  her  husband  she  could  do 
more  than  praise  and  more  than  admire  ;  she  could 
feel  tenderness  and  a  touch  of  remorse  as  she  saw 
him  battling  against  worse  than  the  enemy,  against 
a  deadly  weariness  and  weakness  to  which  he  would 
not  yield.  From  to-morrow  she  determined  to  lay 
to  heart  the  doctor's  counsel,  to  try  whether  he 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  stand  a  little  coddling, 
whether  he  might  not  be  brought  to,  if  only  she 
could  persuade  herself  to  show  him  more  love. 
When  she  looked  at  the  Mildmays  she  understood 
'5 


226  QUISANT& 

what  had  perhaps  been  in  the  doctor's  mind ;  dear 
Lady  Mildmay  (she  was  a  woman  who  immediately 
claimed  that  epithet  with  its  expression  of  mingled 
affection  and  ridicule)  no  doubt  overdid  a  little  her 
pleasant  part.  She  made  Sir  Winterton  a  trifle  ab- 
surd. But  then  with  what  chivalry  he  faced  and 
covered  the  touch  of  absurdity,  or  avoided  it  with- 
out offending  the  love  that  caused  it !  Very  glad 
she  was  that,  when  Lady  Mildmay  asked  to  be 
introduced,  she  could  clasp  hands  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  her  side  had  played  fair,  and  by  a 
delicate  distant  reference  could  honestly  assure 
the  enemy's  wife  that  both  she  and  her  husband 
had  looked  with  disfavour  on  that  unpleasant 
episode. 

She  had  known  she  would  like  Sir  Winterton  and 
was  not  disappointed  ;  she  saw  that  he  was  very 
favourably  impressed  by  her,  largely,  no  doubt,  be- 
cause she  was  handsome,  even  more  because  their 
ways  of  looking  at  things  would  be  very  much  the 
same;  they  had  the  same  pride  and  the  same  sen- 
sitiveness  ;  in  humour  he  was  not  her  match,  or  he 
would  not  have  ridden  his  high  horse.  She  felt 
that  he  complimented  her  in  begging  her  to  make 
him  known  to  Quisant£  ;  and  this  office  also  she 
was  able  to  perform  with  pleasure,  because  they 
had  played  fair.  Hope  was  high  in  her  that  night, 
not  merely  for  this  contest,  not  merely  now  for  her 
husband's  career,  but  for  her  life  and  his,  for  her 
and  him  themselves.  If  her  old  fears  had  been 
proved  wrong,  if  in  face  of  temptation  he  had  not 


NOT  SUPERHUMAN.  227 

yielded,  if  now  by  honourable  means  he  had  made 
good  his  footing,  things  might  go  better  in  the 
future,  that  constant  terror  vanish,  and  there  be 
left  only  what  she  admired  and  what  attracted  her. 
For  they  had  kept  to  the  rules  square  enough  ; 
Quisante"  had  played  fair. 

She  heard  Sir  Winterton  tell  him  so  in  a  friendly 
phrase,  just  touched  with  a  pleasantly  ornate  pomp- 
ousness;  eagerly  looking,  she  saw  Quisante"  accept 
the  compliment  just  as  he  should,  as  a  graceful 
tribute  from  an  antagonist,  as  no  more  than  his  due 
from  anyone  who  knew  him.  She  smiled  to  think 
that  she  could  write  and  tell  Aunt  Maria  that  San- 
dro  was  improving,  that  even  his  manners  grew 
better  and  better  as  success  gave  him  confidence, 
and  confidence  produced  simplicity.  Making  a 
friendly  group  with  their  rivals  in  the  ante-room, 
they  were  able  to  forget  the  little  fretful  man  who 
paced  up  and  down,  carefully  avoiding  Sir  Winter- 
ton's  eye,  but  asserting  by  the  obstinate  pose  of 
his  head  and  the  fierce  pucker  on  his  brow  that  he 
had  done  no  more  than  his  duty  in  asking  a  plain 
answer  to  a  plain  question,  and  that  on  Sir  Winter- 
ton's  head,  not  on  his,  lay  the  consequences  of 
evasion. 

Presently  the  group  separated.  The  little  heaps 
of  paper  on  the  long  table  in  the  inner  room 
had  grown  from  tens  to  hundreds ;  the  end  was 
near.  Quisante's  agent  stood  motionless  behind 
the  clerks  who  counted,  Jimmy  Benyon  looking 
over  his  shoulder  eagerly.  Smiley  regarded  the 


228  QUISANT£. 

heaps  for  a  moment  or  two  and  then  walked  across 
to  Sir  Winterton.  Through  the  doorway  May  saw 
Sir  Winterton  bend  his  head,  listen,  nod,  smile,  and 
turn  and  whisper  to  his  friends.  At  the  next  mo- 
ment Jimmy  Benyon  came  to  the  door,  caught  her 
eye,  smiled,  and  nodded  energetically.  The  pre- 
siding officer  looked  down  the  row  of  men  counting 
to  right  and  left.  "  Are  you  all  agreed  on  your 
figures  ? "  he  asked.  They  exchanged  papers, 
counted,  whispered  a  little,  recovered  their  own 
papers.  "Yes,"  ran  along  the  row,  and  the  presid- 
ing officer  pushed  back  his  chair.  In  a  single  instant 
Quisante  was  the  centre  of  a  throng  of  people  shak- 
ing his  hand,  and  everybody  crowded  into  the  inner 
room. 

"  How  many  ?  "  asked  Sir  Winterton  Mildmay. 

"  Forty-seven,  Sir  Winterton,"  answered  Smiley. 

So  it  was  over,  and  Alexander  Quisant£  was  again 
Member  for  Henstead.  "  Send  somebody  to  tell 
Foster,"  May  heard  him  say  before  he  followed  to 
the  window  from  which  the  announcement  was  to  be 
made.  He  was  very  pale  and  walked  rather  unstead- 
ily. "Stay  by  Mr.  Quisant£  ;  I  think  he's  not  very 
well,"  she  whispered  to  the  agent.  The  next  mo- 
ment two  of  Sir  Winterton's  prominent  supporters 
passed  her;  one  spoke  to  the  other  half  in  a 
whisper.  "  That  damned  Sinnett  business  has  done 
us,"  he  said. 

Her  cheek  flushed  suddenly  ;  it  was  horrible  to 
think  that.  Still  they  had  played  fair,  and  it  was  no 
fault  of  theirs. 


NOT  SUPERHUMAN.  229 

"  Let  me  be  the  first  to  congratulate  you,"  said  a 
gentle  voice. 

She  turned  and  found  Lady  Mildmay beside  her; 
Sir  Winterton's  wife  was  smiling,  but  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"And  do  get  your  husband  home  to  bed;  he 
looks  terribly,  terribly  tired.  I'm  afraid  he's  not 
nearly  as  strong  as  Winterton  ;  but  I'm  sure  you  take 
great  care  of  him." 

"  Not  so  much  as  I  ought  to."  Lady  Mild- 
may,  accustomed  to  straightforward  emotions,  was 
puzzled  at  the  half-bitter  half-merry  tone.  "  I 
mean  I  egg  him  on  when  perhaps  I  ought  to  hold 
him  back.  I  know  he  ought  to  rest,  but  I  never 
want  him  to — never  really  want  it,  you  know." 
Lady  Mildmay  still  looked  puzzled.  "  He's  at  his 
best  working,"  said  May. 

"  Well,  but  you  must  want  him  to  yourself  some- 
times anyhow,  and  that's  a  rest  for  him." 

Oh,  the  differences  of  people  and  fates !  That 
was  May's  not  original  but  irresistible  reflection 
when  Lady  Mildmay  left  her.  Want  him  to  her- 
self! Never — or  never  as  Lady  Mildmay  meant, 
anyhow.  She  only  wanted  a  good  place  whence  to 
look  at  him. 

She  had  one  more  encounter  before  Jimmy  Ben- 
yon  came  to  take  her  home.  Japhet  Williams  came 
up  to  her  and  made  her  shake  hands. 

"  We  have  got  a  representative  in  whom  we  can 
have  confidence,"  he  said. 

"  I  hope  so,  Mr.  Williams."     She  smiled  to  think 


230  QUISANT£. 

how  exactly  she  was  speaking  the  truth — a  rare 
privilege  in  social  intercourse. 

"  Don't  think  that  I  resent  in  any  way  the  distant 
attitude  which  Mr.  Quisante  thought  it  desirable  to 
take  up  in  regard  to  my  action,"  pursued  Japhet ; 
it  seemed  odd  that  such  a  coil  of  words  could  be 
unrolled  from  so  small  a  body.  "  My  course  was  in- 
cumbent on  me.  I  recognise  that  his  attitude  was 
proper  for  him." 

"  I'm  so  glad,  Mr.  Williams,"  May  murmured 
vaguely. 

"  I  could  take  the  course  I  did  because  I  had 
nothing  to  gain  by  it,  nothing  personally.  Being 
personally  interested,  he  could  not  have  moved  in 
the  matter.  I  hope  you  see  my  point  of  view  as 
well  as  his,  Lady  May?  " 

"  Oh,  perfectly.     I — I'm  sure  you're  both  right." 

"  My  conscience  doesn't  blame  me,"  said  Japhet 
solemnly :  and  something  in  his  manner  made  May 
remark  to  Jimmy,  when  he  came  to  take  her  home, 
"  What  a  lot  of  excellent  people  are  spoilt  by  their 
consciences ! " 

Quisant^  had  disappeared,  engulfed  in  a  vortex 
of  triumphant  supporters,  carried  off  by  arms  linked 
in  his,  or  perhaps  hoisted  in  uncomfortable  grandeur 
on  enthusiastic  but  unsteady  shoulders.  The  street 
was  densely  packed,  and  Jimmy's  apparently  simple 
course  of  returning  straight  to  the  hotel  proved  to 
be  a  work  of  much  time  and  difficulty.  But  the 
stir  of  life  was  there,  all  around  them,  and  May's 
eyes  grew  bright  as  she  felt  it.  Now  at  least  it 


NOT  SUPERHUMAN.  231 

could  not  seem  a  difficult  question  whether  the  re- 
sult were  worth  the  effort  ;  triumph  drove  out  such 
doubts. 

"  I'm  so  glad  we've  won  ;  I'm  so  glad  we've  won," 
she  kept  repeating  in  simple  girlish  enthusiasm  as 
Jimmy  steered  her  through  the  crowd,  heading  to- 
wards the  Bull  whenever  he  could  make  a  yard  or 
two.  "  Though  I'm  awfully  sorry  for  Lady  Mild- 
may,"  she  added  once. 

So  long  were  they  in  getting  through  that  on 
their  arrival  they  found  that  Quisant£  had  reached 
home  before  them.  His  journey  had  been  hurried;  he 
had  been  taken  faint  and  the  rejoicings  were  of  neces- 
sity interrupted ;  he  was  upstairs  now  on  the  sofa. 
May  ran  up,  followed  by  Fanny  and  Jimmy,  pass- 
ing many  groups  of  anxious  friends  on  the  way. 
Quisante"  was  stretched  in  a  sort  of  stupor;  he  was 
quite  white,  his  eyes  were  closed.  She  knelt  down 
by  him  and  called  him  by  his  name. 

"  He's  quite  done  up,"  said  Jimmy,  and  he  went 
to  the  sideboard  and  got  hold  of  the  brandy. 

"  Do  keep  everybody  out,"  called  May,  and  Fanny 
shut  the  door  on  half-a-dozen  inquisitive  people. 
Both  she  and  Jimmy  were  looking  very  serious ; 
May  grew  frightened  when  she  turned  and  saw  their 
faces. 

"  He's  only  tired  ;  he'll  be  all  right  again  soon," 
she  protested.  "  Give  me  a  little  brandy  and  water, 
Jimmy." 

They  stood  looking  at  her  while  she  did  her  best 
for  him  ;  a  slight  surprise  was  in  their  faces ;  they 


232  QUISANT£. 

had  never  seen  her  minister  to  him  before.  Did 
she  really  love  him  ?  The  question  escaped  from 
Jimmy's  eyes,  and  Fanny's  acknowledged  without 
answering  it.  Presently  Quisant6  sighed  and  opened 
his  eyes. 

"  Drink  some  of  this,"  said  his  wife  low  and  ten- 
derly. "  Do  drink  some."  She  was  kneeling  by 
him,  one  arm  under  his  shoulder,  the  other  offering 
the  glass. 

"  We've  done  it,  haven't  we  ?  "  he  murmured, 
as  she  tilted  the  glass  to  his  lips.  The  drink  re- 
vived him  ;  with  her  help  he  hoisted  himself  higher 
on  the  sofa  and  looked  at  her.  A  smile  came  on 
his  face  ;  they  heard  him  whisper,  "  My  darling  !  " 
Again  it  struck  them  both  as  a  little  strange  that 
he  should  call  her  that.  But  she  smiled  in  answer 
and  made  him  drink  again. 

"  Yes,  you've  won  ;  you  always  win,"  they  heard 
her  whisper  softly.  She  had  forgotten  all  now,  ex- 
cept that  he  had  won,  that  her  faith  stood  justified, 
and  he  lay  half-dead  from  the  work  of  vindicating 
it.  At  that  moment  she  would  have  been  no  man's 
if  she  could  not  be  Alexander  Quisant£'s. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door;  Jimmy  Benyon 
went  and  opened  it ;  he  came  back  holding  a  note, 
and  gave  it  to  May  ;  it  was  addressed  to  her  hus- 
band in  a  pencil  scrawl.  "A  congratulation  for 
you,"  she  said  to  Quisant£.  He  glanced  carelessly 
and  languidly  at  it,  murmuring,  "  Read  it  to  me, 
please,"  and  she  broke  open  the  sealed  envelope. 
Inside  the  writing  was  as  negligent  a  scribble  as  on 


NOT  SUPERHUMAN.  233 

the  outside,  the  writing  of  a  man  in  bed,  with  a 
stump  of  pencil.  Old  Mr.  Foster  wrote  better  when 
he  was  up  and  abroad,  so  much  better  that  Qui- 
sant6's  tired  eyes  had  not  marked  the  hand  for  his. 
"  Read  it  out  to  me,"  said  Quisant£,  his  eyes  now 
dwelling  gratefully  on  his  wife's  face,  his  brain  at 
last  resting  from  the  long  strain  of  weeks  of  effort. 

"  Yes,  I'll  read  it,"  she  said  cheerfully,  almost 
merrily.  "  We  shall  be  full  of  congratulations  for 
days  now,  shan't  we?  " 

She  smoothed  out  the  sheet  of  paper  ;  there 
were  but  two  or  three  lines  of  writing,  and  she 
read  them  aloud.  She  read  aloud  the  simple  indis- 
creet little  hymn  of  triumph  which  victory  and  the 
safety  of  a  private  note  lured  from  old  Mr.  Foster's 
usually  diplomatic  lips: — 

"  Just  done  it,  thank  God.  Shouldn't  have  with- 
out Tom  Sinnett,  and  we've  got  you  to  thank  for 
that  idea  too." 

She  read  it  all  before  she  seemed  to  put  any 
meaning  into  it.  A  silence  followed  her  reading. 
She  knelt  there  by  him,  holding  the  sheet  of  note- 
paper  in  her  hands.  Fanny  and  Jimmy  stood  with- 
out moving,  their  eyes  on  her  and  Quisant£. 
Slowly  May  rose  to  her  feet.  Quisant6  closed  his 
eyes  and  moved  restlessly  on  the  sofa  ;  he  sighed 
and  put  his  hand  up  to  his  head.  The  slightest  of 
smiles  came  on  May's  lips  as  she  stood  looking  at 
him  for  a  minute  ;  then  she  turned  to  Fanny,  say- 
ing, "  I  think  he'd  better  have  a  little  more  brandy- 
and-water."  She  walked  across  to  the  mantelpiece, 


234  QUISANT£. 

the  crumpled  sheet  of  paper  in  her  hand.  She 
looked  at  Fanny  with  the  little  smile  still  on  her 
lips  as  she  lit  a  candle  and  burnjt  the  note  in  its 
flame,  dropping  the  ashes  into  the  grate.  Quisante 
lay  as  though  unconscious,  taking  no  heed  of  his 
sister-in-law's  proffered  services.  Jimmy  Benyon 
stood  in  awkward  stillness,  looking  at  May.  Sud- 
denly May  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  Just  as  well  to  burn  it ;  it  might  be  misunder- 
stood," said  she.  Jimmy  moved  towards  her 
quickly  and  impulsively.  "  No,  no,  I'm  all  right," 
she  went  on.  "  And  we've  won,  haven't  we  ?  I'm 
going  to  my  room.  Look  after  him."  She  paused 
and  added,  smiling  still,  "  His  head's  very  bad,  you 
know."  And  so,  pale  and  smiling,  she  left  her  hus- 
band to  their  care. 

The  ashes  of  Mr.  Foster's  note  seemed  to  crinkle 
into  a  sour  grin  where  they  lay  on  the  black-leaded 
floor  of  the  fire-grate. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

OPEN   EYES. 

IT  is  a  matter  of  common  observation  that  the 
local  influences  and  peculiarities  which  loom  so  large 
before  the  eyes  of  both  parties  during  such  a  strug- 
gle as  that  at  Henstead  seem  to  be  entirely  for- 
gotten after  the  declaration  of  the  poll,  at  least  by 
the  victorious  faction  and  their  friends  in  the  Press 
and  the  country.  Out  of  a  congeries  of  conflicting 
views,  fancies,  fads,  interests,  quarrels,  and  misun- 
derstandings a  reasoned  and  single  political  verdict 
is  considered  to  emerge,  and  great  is  the  credit  of 
the  advocate  who  extracts  it  from  the  multitudi- 
nous jury.  When  Quisant6  had  won  Henstead,  little 
more  was  heard  of  the  gentleman  with  a  deceased 
wife's  sister,  of  the  butcher  in  trouble  about 
slaughter-houses,  of  Japhet  Williams'  conscience  or 
Tom  Sinnett's  affair.  The  result  was  taken  as  an 
augury  of  triumph  for  the  party  all  over  the  coun- 
try, where  these  things  had  never  been  heard  of 
and  the  voices  of  Henstead  did  not  reach.  Unhap- 
pily however,  as  events  proved,  the  victory  of 
Henstead  had  in  the  end  to  be  regarded  not  as  the 
inauguration  of  a  triumphant  campaign  but  as  a 
brilliant  exploit  performed  in  face  of  an  overwhelm- 
ing enemy.  To  be  brief,  the  Government  was 


236  QUISANT£. 

beaten,  somewhat  badly  beaten,  the  great  cry  was  a 
failure,  and  there  were  many  casualties  in  the  ranks. 
Marchmont  kept  his  seat  by  virtue  of  personal  and 
hereditary  popularity  ;  but  Dick  Benyon,  who  had 
been  considered  quite  safe,  lost  his,  a  fate  shared  by 
many  who  had  deemed  themselves  no  less  secure. 

"  I  suppose  you  preached  your  miserable  Cru- 
sade, as  you  call  it  ?  "  said  Constantine  Blair.  They 
were  at  dinner  at  Marchmont's,  Morewood  and  the 
Dean  also  being  of  the  company. 

"  I  did,  and  without  it  I  should  have  got  a  worse 
thrashing,"  said  Dick  stoutly  ;  it  would  be  unkind 
to  scrutinise  too  closely  the  sincerity  of  this  state- 
ment. 

"  Quisant£  had  the  sense  to  throw  it  over,"  growled 
Constantine  ;  his  equanimity  was  not  up  to  its  usual 
standard. 

"  It's  wisdom  to  lighten  the  ship  in  a  storm," 
smiled  Marchmont. 

"Yes,  and  to  jettison  other  people's  heavy  lug- 
gage first,"  said  Morewood, 

"  The  duty  of  a  captain,  I  suppose,"  murmured 
the  Dean  with  a  smile. 

"  You  needn't  begin  with  your  best  guns,"  argued 
Dick,  a  little  hotly. 

"  We  can't  let  Dick  appropriate  our  metaphor  to 
his  own  purposes,"  said  Marchmont.  "  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  now,  had  the  Crusade  much  to  do  with 
it?" 

Morewood  interposed  before  Dick  could  answer. 

"  Oh,  only  as  a  Crusade.     '  Causes '  of  any  kind 


OPEN  EYES.  237 

are  properly  suspected,"  said  he.  "  For  my  part  I 
should  imitate  the  noble  simplicity  of  municipal 
election  bills.  '  Down  with  the  rates !  '  Quite 
enough,  you  know.  The  end  is  indisputably  attract- 
ive, and  you  aren't  such  an  ass  as  to  try  to  indicate 
the  means.  So  you  get  in." 

"  And  don't  do  it?"  The  question  was  March- 
mont's. 

"Of  course  not — or  what  would  you  have  to  say 
next  time?  " 

"  The  other  side  has  always  prevented  your  doing 
it  ?  "  the  Dean  suggested. 

"  Mostly,  yes — by  factious  opposition." 

"  You  fellows  don't  seem  to  care,"  observed 
Constantine  Blair  moodily,  "  but  I  tell  you  we're  out 
for  four  or  five  years  at  least." 

There  was  a  pause  ;  the  accused  persons  looked 
at  one  another  ;  then  Marchmont  had  the  courage 
to  observe  that  the  country  would  perhaps  live 
through  the  period  of  calamity  before  it. 

"  The  country,  yes,  but  how  about  some  of  the 
party  ?  "  asked  Morewood.  "  How  about  that, 
Blair?  You're  supposed  to  be  the  man  who  feeds 
the  ravens  and  providently  caters  for  the  sparrows, 
you  know.  You'll  have  your  hands  full,  I  should 
think." 

Blair's  look  expressed  the  opinion  that  they 
trenched  on  mysteries ;  he  had  these  little  traits  of 
self-importance,  sitting  funnily  on  a  round  and 
merry  face.  Marchmont  laughed  as  he  turned  to 
Dick  and  enquired  after  Jimmy. 


238  QUISANT£. 

"  He  was  helping  you,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  after  Quisante  was  in.  He's  all  right." 
Dick's  tone  was  slightly  reserved. 

"  Did  Quisant^  help  you  ?  He  seems  to  have 
helped  everybody  ;  the  man  ran  about  like  an  elec- 
tric current." 

"  I  didn't  ask  him  to  come  to  me.  I  felt,  you 
know " 

"  Yes,  I  see.     But  Jimmy  didn't  ?  " 

Dick  looked  rather  puzzled.  "  I  don't  quite  make 
Jimmy  out  about  Quisante,"  he  remarked.  "He 
worked  for  him  like  a  horse  all  the  time,  and  wrote 
me  letters  praising  him  to  the  skies.  Then  when 
he  was  in  and  everybody  was  cracking  him  up  Jimmy 
wouldn't  open  his  mouth  about  him — seemed  not 
to  like  the  subject,  you  know." 

Nobody  spoke  ;  they  had  heard  rumours  of  an 
event  which  would  bring  Jimmy  into  new  relations 
with  Quisant^,  and  they  waited  for  possible  infor- 
mation. But  Dick  did  not  go  on,  so  it  was  left  to 
Morewood  to  make  the  necessary  intrusion  into 
private  affairs  ;  he  did  it  willingly,  with  a  malicious 
grin. 

"Thinking  him  over  in  the  light  of  a  relation, 
perhaps  ?  "  he  suggested. 

"  It  would  only  be  a  connection  anyhow,"  Dick 
corrected  rather  sharply. 

"  Oh,  if  that  comforts  you  !  "  said  Morewood, 
laughing. 

"  She's  a  charming  girl  and  I'm  awfully  glad  it's 
come  off." 


OPEN   EYES.  239 

"  Oh,  it  has  ?  "  asked  Marchmont. 

"  Yes,  the  other  day." 

"  And  you're  glad  in  spite  of ?  " 

"Yes,  I  am.  Besides  I  don't  mean  anything  of 
that  sort.  I  suppose  I  know  as  well  as  anybody 
what  Quisante  is." 

"  As  far  as  I'm  concerned  I'll  admit  you  do,  and 
still  feel  you  don't  know  much,"  remarked  the 
Dean. 

"  Well,  I  wish  there  were  more  men  like  him," 
said  Blair,  nodding  vigorously. 

"  Some  men  would  sacrifice  anything  for  their 
party,"  remarked  Morewood. 

Marchmont  took  no  part  in  the  talk  about  Qui- 
sant6  ;  he  could  not  praise ;  for  reasons  very  plain 
to  himself  he  would  not  say  a  word  in  blame  or 
depreciation.  Not  only  had  he  been  Quisante^s 
rival,  but  ever  since  his  talk  with  May  he  had  felt 
himself  the  repository  of  special  information,  im- 
perfect indeed  and  shadowy,  yet  beyond  that  which 
the  outside  world  possessed.  Besides  he  had  re- 
ceived two  letters  from  her,  one  written  in  the  course 
of  the  fight,  gay  in  tone,  expressing  an  eager  interest 
in  her  husband's  fortunes,  keenly  appreciative  of  her 
husband's  brilliancy  and  bravery.  The  second,  in 
reply  to  his  telegram  of  congratulation,  had  run  in 
another  key  ;  an  utter  weariness  and  an  almost  dis- 
gusted satiety  seemed  to  have  superseded  her  former 
interest.  Side  by  side  with  these  he  had  discovered 
in  the  repressed  but  eloquent  words  of  her  greeting 
to  him  an  intense  desire  to  see  him.  "  I  want  a 


QUISANT£. 

change  so  badly,"  she  wrote.  "  I  want  somebody 
unpractical,  unpushing.  You  must  come  directly 
we're  back  in  town."  They  had  been  back  in  town 
ten  days,  he  knew,  but  he  had  not  yet  obeyed  her 
summons.  The  thought  crossed  his  mind  that  the 
contrast  between  her  two  letters  was  an  odd  parallel 
to  Dick's  description  of  the  puzzling  demeanour  of 
his  brother  Jimmy.  Was  it  a  characteristic  of  the 
man's  to  produce  these  sudden  and  startling  changes 
of  mood  towards  himself  ?  Marchmont  was  puzzled 
at  the  notion  ;  he  was  too  little  able  to  sympathise 
with  the  attraction  to  find  himself  capable  of  under- 
standing the  force  and  extent  of  the  revulsion.  "  At 
all  events  she  must  be  pretty  well  prepared  for 
what  he  is  by  now,"  he  said  to  himself  with  the 
mixture  of  pity  and  resentment  which  his  love  for 
her  and  her  rejection  of  him  in  Quisante's  favour 
had  bred  in  his  mind.  For  her  he  was  very  sorry  ; 
it  was  harder  to  be  quite  simply  and  sincerely  sorry 
that  her  blindness  to  what  had  been  so  obvious  was 
working  out  its  inevitable  result ;  he  would  like 
to  console  her  in  any  way  short  of  refraining 
from  pointing  out  how  wrong  she  had  been 
proved. 

When,  in  obedience  to  another  note,  he  went,  he 
did  not  at  first  find  May  alone.  Although  he  knew 
Sir  Winterton  Mildmay,  he  was  not  acquainted  with 
his  wife,  and  was  surprised  when  the  kind-looking 
woman  who  sat  with  May  was  introduced  to  him  as 
Lady  Mildmay.  This  was  a  quick  and  thorough 
burying  of  the  hatchet  indeed.  "Would  you  see 


OPEN  EYES.  241 

this  in  any  country  except  England  ? "  he  asked 
jokingly.  Lady  Mildmay  declared  not,  adding  that 
there  was  no  bitterness  in  England  because  there 
was  only  upstanding  fighting  which  left  no  rancour 
and  indeed  bred  personal  liking.  Marchmont 
thought  to  himself  that  Quisant6  must  have  been 
very  clever — or  that  this  dear  woman  (he  gave  her  the 
epithet  at  once  as  everybody  did)  was  not  very 
clever,  no  cleverer  than  he  had  long  known  hand- 
some Sir  Winterton  to  be.  Glancing  across  at  May, 
he  seemed  to  see  an  expression  of  absolute  pain  on 
her  face,  as  Lady  Mildmay  developed  these  amiable 
theories. 

"  I  don't  believe  my  husband  will  ever  stand 
against  yours  again,"  she  said. 

May  looked  at  Marchmont.  "They  really  have 
taken  quite  a  fancy  to  one  another,"  she  said  with 
a  laugh  that  sounded  rather  forced.  "  Funny,  isn't 
it?" 

"  The  speech  you  invite  me  to  would  be  a  very 
unfortunate  one  to  address  to  the  wives  of  the 
two  gentlemen,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "  Funny 
indeed !  I  prefer  to  call  it  inevitable,  don't  you, 
Lady  Mildmay  ?  " 

May  made  the  slightest  gesture  of  impatience,  but 
a  moment  later  smiled  again  at  Lady  Mildmay,  say- 
ing, "  Yes,  I  suppose  that's  what  I  ought  to  have 
said." 

The  visitor  rose  to  go  ;  approaching  May,  she 
first  shook  hands  and  then  stood  for  a  moment  with 

a  half-expectant    half-imploring  air.     It  was  plain 
16 


242  QUISANTE". 

that  she  suggested  a  kiss.  Marchmont  looked  on 
rather  amused  ;  he  knew  that  May  Quisantewasnot 
given  to  effusiveness.  It  would,  however,  have 
been  cruel  not  to  kiss  Lady  Mildmay,  and  May 
kissed  her  with  an  excellent  grace. 

"  Well,"  said  Marchmont  when  the  door  was 
shut,  "  she  takes  defeat  prettily.  Evidently  you've 
made  a  conquest,  as  well  as  your  husband." 

"  I  wish  she  wouldn't  come  here,"  said  May, 
wandering  to  the  window  and  speaking  in  a  discon- 
solate voice. 

"You  don't  like  her?" 

"Like  her?  Oh,  of  course  I  like  the  dear  crea- 
ture !  Who  wouldn't  ?  And  I  like  him  too."  She 
turned  round,  smiling  a  little.  "  He's  so  nice,  and 
large,  and  clean,  and  direct,  and  obvious,  and 
simple,  you  know.  I  like  him  just  as  I  like  a  great 
rosy  apple." 

"  Hum  !     I  don't  eat  many  of  those,  do  you  ?  " 

She  laughed,  but  rather  reluctantly.  "  Perhaps 
that's  more  your  fault  than  the  apple's.  Still  I 
agree.  A  bite  now  and  then.  But  they're  mostly 
only  to  dress  the  table." 

"  Why  don't  you  want  her  to  come?" 

May  sat  down  and  fidgeted  with  a  nick-nack  on 
the  table. 

"  Don't  you  think  being  forgiven's  rather  tiresome 
work?"  she  asked.  "They  don't  mean  that,  I 
know,  but  I  can't  help  feeling  as  if  they  did." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should." 

She  looked  full  at  him  for  a  moment.     "  No,  1 


OPEN  EYES.  243 

didn't  suppose  you  would  see  it,"  she  said.  "  Don't 
stand  there,  come  and  sit  here, — near  me.  I've 
written  you  three  letters,  but  you  don't  seem  to 
understand  yet  that  I  want  to  see  you."  He  took 
the  chair  near  her  to  which  she  had  pointed  ;  she 
looked  at  him,  evidently  with  both  pleasure  and 
amusement.  "  You  don't  look  the  least  as  if  you'd 
been  electioneering,"  she  told  him  in  an  admiring 
congratulatory  tone. 

"  I've  had  the  egg-marks  brushed  off,"  he  ex- 
plained with  the  insincere  gravity  that  he  knew  she 
liked. 

"  Will  they  brush  off  ?  Will  they  always  brush 
off?"  she  asked,  her  voice  low,  her  hands  nursing 
her  knee,  her  eyes  on  his. 

"  Parables,  my  lady  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Do  you  know  that  we  won  the  election 
because  rosy  Sir  Winterton  was  supposed  to  have 
flirted  with  his  keeper's  daughter,  and  wouldn't  say 
he  hadn't,  and  wouldn't  bring  that  dear  soui  where 
anybody  was  likely  to  say  he  had  ?" 

"  No,  I  hadn't  heard  that.  I  thought  your  hus- 
band's  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  all  that  helped.  He  was  splendid. 
But  we  shouldn't  have  done  it  without  the  keeper's 
daughter." 

"  Vox  populi,  vox  Dei ;  they're  both  so  hard  to 
understand." 

"  I've  been  longing  for  you,"  she  said,  seeming 
to  awake  suddenly  from  her  half-dreamy  half- 
playful  account  of  the  life  she  had  been  living.  The 


244  QUISANT£. 

speech,  with  its  cruel  frankness  and  its  more  cruel 
affection,  embittered  him. 

"  When  you're  tired  of  a  rosy  apple,  you  like  a 
bite  at  a  bitter  cherry  ?  One  bite ;  the  rest  of  me, 
I  suppose,  is  only  to  dress  the  table." 

She  understood  him. 

"  Well,  then,  you  shouldn't  come,"  she  protested. 
"  I've  been  fair  about  it." 

"  No,  not  always ;  what  you  write  and  say  now 
and  then  isn't  fair  unless  it  means  something  more." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  it  means." 

Her  misery  drove  away  his  resentment,  and  pity 
filled  its  place. 

"  You  seem  more  than  usually  down  on  your 
luck,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 

"Yes,  a  little,"  she  confessed.  "It's  the  Mild- 
mays  and — and — the  general  sham  of  it,  you  know." 
She  glanced  across  at  him,  smiling.  "  That's  why  I 
longed  for  you,"  she  said. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  never  had  fate  and  never 
had  woman  been  so  cruel.  The  one  so  nearly  had 
given  what  he  wanted,  the  other  tantalised  with  the 
exhibition  of  a  feeling  only  just  short  of  what  he 
hoped  for,  but  the  more  merciless  because  it 
seemed  not  to  understand  by  how  narrow  an  inch 
it  failed  of  his  desires.  He  spoke  to  her  hardly 
and  coldly. 

"  You  seem  to  me  to  choose  to  try  a  bit  of  every- 
thing and  a  bit  of  everybody,"  he  said.  "  That's 
your  affair.  But  I'm  not  surprised  that  you  don't 
find  it  satisfactory." 


OPEN  EYES.  245 

"  I  have  to  try  more  than  I  like  of  some  things 
and  some  people,"  she  replied.  She  went  on 
quickly,  "  I  know,  oh,  I  know  !  Now  you're  call- 
ing me  disloyal ! " 

A  curious  vexation  laid  hold  of  him.  Once  he 
had  liked  her  to  speak  of  him  in  this  strain,  even  as 
once  he  had  loved  to  see  in  her  the  type  of  the 
pure,  calm,  gracious  maiden.  Now  he  knew  better 
both  her  and  himself.  The  impulse  was  on  him  to 
say  that  he  cared  nothing  for  her  disloyalty  so  that 
he  himself  was  the  cause  of  it  and  he  himself  to 
reap  the  benefit.  He  was  quick  to  read  her,  and  he 
read  in  her  restless  misery  some  sore  discontent 
with  the  lot  that  she  had  chosen.  But  he  refrained 
from  the  words,  not  in  his  turn  from  any  loyalty, 
but  rather  still  from  bitterness,  from  a  perverse 
desire  to  give  her  nothing  of  what  she  had  refused, 
to  leave  her  in  the  solitude  of  spirit  which  came  of 
her  own  action.  Besides  his  fastidiousness  revolted 
from  plunging  him  into  a  position  which  was  so 
common,  and  which  he,  with  his  dislike  of  things 
common,  had  always  counted  vulgar.  Thus  he  was 
silent,  and  she  also  sat  silent,  looking  straight  before 
her.  At  last,  however,  she  spoke. 

"  Alexander's  gone  to  the  city,"  she  said,  "to  see 
his  stockbroker.  The  stockbroker's  a  cousin  of— 
ours."  She  smiled  for  a  moment.  "  His  name's 
Mandeville.  Since  the  party's  out,  we've  got  to 
see  if  we  can  make  some  money." 

His  pity  revived  ;  whatever  she  deserved,  it  was 
not  this  horrible  common-place  lot  of  wanting 


246  QUISANTE. 

money  ;  that  sat  so  ill  on  his  still  stately,  no  longer 
faultless,  image  of  her. 

"  To  make  some  money  ? "  he  repeated,  half- 
scornful,  half-puzzled. 

"  Oh,  you're  rich — you  don't  know.  We  spent  a 
lot  at  Henstead.  We  must  have  money  :  I  spend 
a  lot,  so  does  Alexander."  She  glanced  at  him,  and 
he  saw  that  something  had  nearly  escaped  her  lips 
of  which  she  repented.  "  Do  you  ever  feel,"  she 
went  on,  apparently  by  way  of  amendment,  "  as  if 
you  might  be  dishonest — under  stress  of  circum- 
stances, you  know  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  might.  I've  never  thought  about 
it." 

"  So  dishonest  as — as  to  get  into  trouble  and  be 
sent  to  prison  and  so  on  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  should  hope  to  be  skilful  enough  to  avoid 
that,"  he  laughed.  "  Fools  ought  never  to  be  dis- 
honest ;  so  they  invented  the  '  best  policy  '  proverb 
to  keep  themselves  straight." 

May  nodded.  "  That's  it,  I  think,"  she  said,  and 
fell  into  silence  again.  This  time  he  spoke. 

"  I  don't  like  your  wanting  money,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  No,  I  know,  "  she  smiled.  "  It's  not  like  what 
you've  always  chosen  to  think  I'm  like.  I  ought  to 
live  in  gilded  halls  and  scatter  largesse,  oughtn't 
I  ? "  She  laughed  a  little  bitterly.  "  Perhaps  I 
will,  if  cousin  Mandeville  does  his  duty." 

"  Meanwhile  you  feel  the  temptation  to  dishon. 
esty?"  He  paused,  but  then  went  on  deliberately, 


OPEN  EYES.  247 

"  Or,  to  follow  your  rule  of  complete  identification, 
shall  I  say  '  we  feel  a  temptation  to  dishonesty,  do 
we  ? ' " 

"  Oh,  but  we  should  be  clever  enough  not  to  be 
found  out,  shouldn't  we  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  would." 

"  You've  not  half  sudi  good  reason  to  think  it  as 
I  have."  She  rose,  walked  to  the  hearth-rug, 
and  stood  facing  the  grate,  her  back  turned  to  him. 
She  seemed  to  him  to  be  looking  at  a  photograph 
which  he  noticed  now  for  the  first  time  on  the 
mantelpiece,  the  picture  of  a  stout  elderly  man  with 
large  clean-shaven  face  and  an  expression  of  tolerant 
shrewdness.  Marchmont  moved  close  to  her  shoulder 
and  looked  also.  Perceiving  him,  she  half  turned  her 
head  towards  him.  "  That's  my  husband's  right- 
hand  man  at  Henstead,"  she  said.  "  They  under- 
stand each  other  perfectly." 

"  He  looks  a  sharp  fellow." 

"So  he  maybe  able  to  understand  Alexander  ? 
Thank  you.  I  like  to  have  his  picture  here."  Sud- 
denly she  turned  round  full  on  him,  stretching  out 
her  hand.  "  I  wish  you'd  go  now,"  she  said.  "  Have 
you  turned  stupid,  or  don't  you  see  that  you  must 
leave  me  alone,  or — or  I  shall  say  all  sorts  of  things 
I  mustn't  ?  That  man  on  the  mantelpiece  there 
typifies  it  all.  Bless  his  dear  old  fat  face  !  I  like 
him  so  much — and  he's  such  a  humbug,  and  I  don't 
think  he  knows  that  he's  in  the  least  a  humbug.  Is 
sincerity  just  stupidity?"  Her  mirth  broke  out. 
"  Alexander  hates  my  having  him  there,"  she 


248  QUISANTE. 

whispered  ;  then    she    drew    away,     crying,    "  Go, 

go." 

"  I'm  off,"  said  he.  "  But  why  doesn't  Quisante" 
like  the  old  gentleman's  picture,  and  why  do  you 
keep  it  there  if  he  doesn't?" 

"  And  why  are  none  of  us  perfect — except  perhaps 
the  Mildmays?  Good-bye."  She  gave  him  her  hand. 
"  Oh,  by  the  way,"  she  went  on,  calling  him  back 
after  he  had  turned,  "  have  you  ever  had  anything 
to  do  with  promoting  companies  or  anything  of 
that  kind  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  I  can't  say  I  have." 

"  Is  it  necessarily  disreputable?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  smiled.  "  Not  necessarily.  In  fact 
it's  an  essential  feature  in  the  life  of  a  commercial 
nation."  He  was  mockingly  grave  again. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Marchmont.  An 
essential  feature  of  the  life  in  a  commercial  nation  ! 
That's  very  good."  She  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Now 
I've  got  something  agreeable  to  say,"  she  said.  He 
did  not  move  till  she  shook  her  head  violently  at 
him  and  pointed  to  the  door.  As  he  went  out,  she 
turned  back  to  Mr.  Foster's  picture,  murmuring, 
"  It's  no  use  my  setting  up  for  a  martyr.  Martyrs 
don't  giggle  half  the  time."  Had  Marchmont  heard 
her,  the  word  "giggle"  would  have  stirred  him  to 
real  indignation  ;  it  was  so  inappropriate  to  that 
low  reluctant  mirth-laden  laugh  of  hers,  which 
seemed  to  reveal  the  feeling  that  it  mocked  and 
extorted  the  pity  that  it  could  not  but  deride.  It 
sounded  again  as  she  stood  looking  at  old  Foster 


OPEN  EYES.  249 

the  maltster's  picture  thereon  the  mantelpiece  where 
Quisant£  did  not  like  to  see  it. 

For  what  was  the  meaning  of  it  to  her,  declared 
by  her  perverse  determination  to  keep  it  there  and 
plain  enough  to  her  husband's  quick  wit  ?  It  was 
the  outward  sign  that  her  malicious  fancy  chose  of 
the  new  state  of  feelifig  and  the  new  relation  be- 
tween them  which  had  emerged  from  the  tempest 
of  emotion  that  Foster's  congratulatory  note  had 
thrown  her  into.  The  tempest  had  raged  in  soli- 
tude and  silence ;  she  had  not  spoken  a  word  to 
her  sister  or  to  Jimmy  Benyon,  hardly  a  word  to 
Quisant6  himself.  He  had  his  case  of  course,  and 
she  was  obliged  to  hear  it,  to  hear  also  Foster's 
own  account  of  how  he  came  to  express  himself  so 
awkwardly  and  to  write  as  though  Mr.  Quisante1 
had  originally  set  the  story  afloat,  whereas  he  meant 
only  to  applaud  the  tact  with  which  his  leader  had 
regulated  their  conduct  towards  it  after  it  was 
started.  May  said  she  was  quite  sure  he  had  meant 
only  this,  thanked  him  for  all  his  services,  and  begged 
the  photograph.  Quisant6  approved  this  bearing 
towards  the  third  party  but  was  not  deceived  by  it 
himself.  When  the  picture  was  set  on  the  mantel- 
piece, he  understood  that  his  case  was  not  convinc- 
ing, that  the  episode  would  not  fall  into  the  obli- 
vion which  he  had  suggested  for  it  ;  it  would  not 
be  forgotten  and  could  not  be  forgiven.  Deeply 
resentful  of  this  treatment — for  he  saw  nothing  very 
bad  in  his  manoeuvre — he  had  been  moved  to  protest 
passionately,  to  explain  volubly,  and  to  offer  pledge 


250  QUISANTE. 

on  pledge.  Protests,  plaints,  and  promises  broke 
uselessly  against  the  cool,  composed,  indulgent 
friendliness  of  her  bearing.  She  gave  him  to  under- 
stand that  no  pretences  were  longer  possible  between 
them,  but  that  they  would  get  along  without  them. 
She  allowed  him  to  see  that  the  one  fear  left  to  her 
on  his  account  was  the  apprehension  that  some  day 
he  would  be  found  out  by  other  people.  Here  her 
terror  was  as  great  as  it  had  ever  been,  for  her 
pride  was  unbroken  ;  but  she  did  not  show  him  the 
full  extent  of  her  anxiety. 

"  You  ought  to  be  particularly  careful,  so  many 
people  would  like  to  see  you  come  to  grief."  This, 
or  something  like  it,  was  what  she  had  said,  by  way 
of  dismissing  the  subject  for  ever  from  their  con- 
versation with  one  another.  It  expressed  very  well 
her  new  position,  how  she  had  abandoned  those 
mad  hopes  of  changing  him  and  fallen  back  on  the 
resolve  to  see  the  truth  of  him  herself  and  make  the 
best  of  him  to  others.  But  the  very  calmness  and 
friendliness  of  the  warning  told  him  how  resolutely 
she  had  chosen  her  path,  while  they  concealed  the 
shame  and  the  fear  with  which  she  set  herself  to 
tread  it.  One  thing  only  Quisantd  understood  quite 
clearly  ;  it  was  no  use  acting  to  her  any  more  ;  what 
she  wished  was  that  he  should  cease  to  act  to  her. 
Yet,  knowing  this,  he  could  not  cease,  it  was  not 
in  his  nature  to  cease,  and  he  went  on  playing 
his  part  before  eyes  that  he  knew  were  not  im- 
posed on  but  saw  through  all  his  disguises.  His 
old  furtiveness  of  manner  came  back  now  when 


OPEN  EYES.  251 

he  talked  over  himself  and  his  affairs  with  his 
wife. 

But  even  here  he  had  his  triumph,  he  was  not  at  her 
mercy,  he  wielded  a  power  of  his  own  ;  she  recog- 
nised it  with  a  smile.  Like  Aunt  Maria,  whatever  she 
might  think  of  him,  she  was  bound  to  think  constantly 
of  him,  to  be  occupied  with  his  doings  and  his  success, 
to  want  to  know  what  was  in  his  mind,  yes,  although 
it  might  be  what  she  hated  to  find  there.  For  a 
while  he  had  withdrawn  himself  from  her,  ceasing 
to  tell  of  his  life,  aims,  and  doings.  If  he  sought 
thus  to  bring  her  to  terms,  she  proved  an  easy  con- 
quest; she  surrendered  at  once,  laughing  at  herself 
and  at  him.  "  We're  partners,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
must  hear  all  about  what  you're  doing.  I  can't  live 
without  that,  you  know."  And  as  the  price  of  what 
she  must  have  she  gave  him  friendship,  sympathy, 
and  comradeship,  crossing  his  wishes  in  nothing  and 
never  allowing  herself  to  upbraid  except  in  that 
small  tacit  jeer  of  Mr.  Foster's  picture  on  the  man- 
telpiece.  For  now  she  believed  herself  to  know  the 
worst,  and  yet  to  be  able  to  endure. 

What  sort  of  life  promised  to  form  itself  out  of 
this  state  of  affairs  ?  For  after  all  she  was  at  the 
beginning  of  life,  and  he  hardly  well  into  the  mid- 
dle of  his.  Neither  of  the  two  obvious  things 
seemed  possible ;  devotion  was  out  of  the  question, 
alienation  was  forbidden  by  her  unconquerable  in- 
terest in  him  and  his  irrepressible  instinct  to  hold 
her  mind,  even  if  he  could  not  chain  her  affections. 
Perhaps  a  third  thing  was  more  usual  still,  tolerance. 


252  QUISANT£. 

But  for  her  at  least  neither  was  tolerance  the  mood, 
for  that  is  ill  to  build  out  of  a  mixture  of  intense 
admiration  and  scornful  contempt.  These  seemed 
likely  to  be  the  predominant  features  of  her  life 
with  her  husband,  sharing  it  so  equally  that  the  one 
could  never  drive  out  the  other  nor  yet  come  to  fair 
terms  and,  dividing  the  territory,  live  at  peace. 

"  Perhaps  they  will  some  day,"  she  thought, 
"  when  I  get  old  and  quiet."  She  was  neither  old 
nor  quiet  now,  and  her  youth  cried  out  against  so 
poor  a  consolation.  Then  she  told  herself  that  she 
had  the  child,  only  to  reproach  herself,  a  moment 
later,  with  the  insincere  repetition  of  a  common- 
place. The  child  was  not  enough  ;  had  her  nature 
been  such  as  to  find  the  child  enough,  she  would 
certainly  never  have  become  Alexander  Quisante's 
wife.  Always  when  she  was  most  strongly  repelled 
by  him,  there  was  in  the  back  of  her  mind  the  feel- 
ing that  it  was  something  to  be  his  wife.  Only — 
he  mustn't  be  found  out.  The  worst  terror  of  all, 
at  which  her  half-jesting  words  to  Marchmont  had 
hinted,  came  back  as  she  murmured,  "  I  wish  we  had 
more  money."  For  money  was  necessary,  as  votes 
had  been,  and — her  eyes  strayed  to  old  Foster's 
portrait  on  the  mantelpiece.  The  election  had  cost 
a  lot ;  no  salary  was  to  be  looked  for  now  ;  both  by 
policy  and  by  instinct  Quisant6  was  lavish  ;  she  her- 
self had  no  aptitude  for  small  economies.  Money 
was  wanted  very  much  indeed  in  Grosvenor 
Road. 

It  was  on  the  way,  though.     This  was  the  news 


OPEN  EYES.  253 

that  Quisant6,  in  the  interval  between  his  return 
from  electioneering  and  the  meeting  of  Parliament, 
brought  back  day  by  day  from  his  excursions  to  the 
City  and  his  conversations  with  Mandeville.  He 
was  careful  to  explain  to  his  wife  that  he  was  no 
"  guinea-pig,"  that  he  did  not  approve  of  the  ani- 
mal, and  would  never  use  his  position  to  pick  up 
gain  in  that  way.  But  he  had  leisure — at  least  he 
could  make  time — and  some  of  it  he  proposed  to 
devote  to  starting  a  really  legitimate  and  highly 
lucrative  undertaking.  The  Alethea  Printing  Press 
was  to  revolutionise  a  great  many  things  besides 
the  condition  of  Quisant£'s  finances ;  it  was  not  an 
ordinary  speculative  company.  Marchmont's  phrase 
came  in  here,  and  May  used  it  neatly  and  graciously. 
Quisant£,  much  encouraged,  plunged  into  an  account 
of  the  great  invention  ;  if  only  it  worked  as  it  was 
certain  to  work,  there  was  not  one  fortune  but  many 
fortunes  in  it.  "  And  it  will  work  ?  "  she  asked.  "  If 
we  can  get  the  capital,"  he  answered  with  a  confi- 
dent air.  "  I  shall  try  to  interest  all  my  friends  in 
it,"  he  went  on.  "  You  can  help  me  there."  May 
looked  doubtful,  and  Quisante1  grew  more  eloquent. 
At  last  he  held  up  a  sheaf  of  papers,  saying  tri- 
umphantly, 

"  Here  are  favourable  reports  from  all  the  leading 
experts.  We  shall  have  an  array  of  them  in  the 
prospectus.  Of  course  they're  absolutely  impartial, 
and  they  really  leave  no  room  for  doubt."  He  held 
them  out  to  her,  but  she  leant  back  with  her  hands 
in  her  lap. 


254  QUISANT6. 

"  I  shouldn't  understand  them,"  she  protested. 
"  But  they  all  agree,  do  they  ?  " 

"Yes,  all,"  he  said  emphatically.  "Well,  all 
except  one."  His  brow  wrinkled  a  little.  "  Man- 
deville  insisted  on  having  an  opinion  from  Professor 
Maturin.  I  was  against  it.  Maturin's  absurdly 
pessimistic." 

"  He's  a  great  man,  isn't  he?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  so, — he's  got  a  great  reputa- 
tion anyhow." 

"  And  he's  against  you  ?  " 

"  The  fact  is  that  his  is  only — only  a  draft  report. 
So  far  as  it  goes,  it's  not  encouraging,  but  he's 
never  had  the  facts  really  laid  before  him." 

"  You'd  better  go  and  lay  them  before  him,"  she 
said  very  gravely. 

Quisant6  caught  eagerly  at  the  suggestion. 

"  Exactly  what  I  proposed  to  Mandeville ! "  he 
cried.  "  The  prospectus  won't  be  out  for  nearly  a 
month  yet,  and  I  shall  go  and  see  Maturin.  I 
know —  He  rose  and  began  to  walk  about.  "  I 
know  Maturin  is  wrong,  and  I  know  that  I  can  show 
him  he's  wrong.  I  only  want  an  hour  with  him  to 
bring  him  round  to  my  view,  to  the  true  view." 

"  Well,  why  haven't  you  been  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  tried  to  go,  but  he's  ill  and  not  equal  to  busi- 
ness. As  soon  as  he  gets  better  I  shall  go.  To 
put  his  report  in  as  it  stands  would  not  only  do  us 
infinite  harm — in  fact  we  couldn't  think  of  it — but 
it  wouldn't  be  just  to  him." 

"  But  if  he  won't  change  his  opinion?" 


OPEN  EYES.  255 

"  Oh,  he  must,  he  will.  I  tell  you  it's  as  plain  as 
a  pikestaff,  when  once  it's  properly  explained." 

"  I'm  sure  you'll  be  able  to  convert  him,  if  any- 
one can,"  said  May  soothingly. 

u  I  must,"  said  Quisant£  briefly,  and  sat  down  to 
his  papers  again. 

For  an  hour  or  two  he  worked  steadily,  without  a 
pause,  without  an  apparent  hesitation.  That  fine 
machine  of  his  was  ploughing  its  straight  unfaltering 
way  through  details  previously  unfamiliar  and 
through  problems  which  he  had  never  studied. 
From  five  to  seven  she  sat  with  a  book  in  her  hands, 
feigning  to  read,  really  watching  her  husband.  He 
could  not  fail,  she  said  to  herself;  he  would  make 
the  Alethea  Printing  Press  a  success,  irrespective  of 
the  actual  merits  of  it.  Was  that  possible?  It 
Seemed  almost  possible  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"  It's  bound  to  go,"  he  said  at  last,  pushing  away 
the  papers.  "  I'm  primed  now,  and  I  can  convince 
old  Maturin  in  half  an  hour."  He  held  up  the 
Professor's  report.  "  He  must  withdraw  this  and 
give  us  another." 

Alas,  there  are  things  before  which  even  will  and 
energy  and  brains  must  bow.  As  he  spoke  the 
servant  came  in,  bringing  the  Evening  Standard. 
May  took  it,  glanced  at  the  middle  page,  and  then, 
with  a  little  start,  looked  across  at  her  husband. 
He  saw  her  glance.  "  Any  news  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  Professor  can't  be  convinced,"  she  said. 
"  His  illness  took  a  sudden  turn  for  the  worse  last 
night  and  he  died  this  afternoon  at  three  o'clock." 


256  QUISANT£. 

Quisant£  sat  quite  still  for  a  few  minutes,  the 
dead  Professor's  report  on  the  Alethea  Printing 
Press  still  in  his  fingers. 

"  What'll  you  do  now  ?  "  she  asked,  with  the  smile 
of  curiosity  which  she  always  had  ready  for  his 
plans.  Would  he  pursue  the  Professor  beyond 
Charon's  stream  ? 

He  hesitated  a  little,  glancing  at  her  rather  un- 
easily. At  last  he  spoke. 

"  One  thing  at  all  events  is  clear  to  me,"  he  said. 
"This  thing  doesn't  represent  a  reasoned  and  well- 
informed  opinion."  He  folded  it  up  carefully  and 
placed  it  by  itself  in  a  long  envelope.  "  We  must 
consider  our  course,"  he  ended. 

In  a  flash,  by  an  instinct,  May  knew  what  their 
course  would  be  and  at  whose  dictation  it  would  be 
followed. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Quisante",  "  all  this  is  strictly 
between  ourselves." 

Her  cheek  flushed  a  little.  "You  mustn't  tell 
me  any  more  business  secrets.  I  don't  like  them," 
said  she,  and  she  turned  away  to  escape  the  quick, 
would-be  covert  glance  that  she  knew  he  would 
direct  at  her. 

Money  was  necessary  ;  votes  had  been  necessary  ; 
old  Foster  smiled  in  fat  shrewdness  from  the  mantel- 
piece. May  Quisant£  was  less  sure  that  she  knew 
the  worst. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A  STRANGE  IDEA. 

THE  next  few  weeks  were  a  time  of  restless  ac- 
tivity with  Alexander  Quisante\  Again  he  was  like 
an  electric  current,  not  travelling  now  from  constitu- 
ency to  constituency,  but  between  Westminster  and 
his  cousin  Mandeville's  offices  in  the  City.  In  both 
places  he  was  very  busy.  His  leader  had  declared 
for  a  waiting  policy,  and  an  interval  in  which  the 
demoralisation  of  defeat  should  pass  away  ;  the 
party  must  feel  its  feet  again,  the  great  man  said. 
Constantine  Blair  was  full  of  precedents  for  the 
course,  quoting  Lord  Melbourne,  Sir  Robert  Peel, 
Sir  James  Graham,  and  all  the  gods  of  the  Par- 
liamentarian. Brusquely  and  almost  rudely  Qui- 
sant£  brushed  him,  his  gods,  and  his  leader  on  one 
side,  and  raised  the  standard  of  fierce  and  imme- 
diate battle.  The  majority  was  composite ;  his 
quick  eye  saw  the  spot  where  a  wedge  might  be  in- 
serted between  the  two  component  parts  and  driven 
home  till  the  gap  yawned  wide  and  scission  threat- 
ened. The  fighting  men  needed  only  to  be  shown 
where  to  fight ;  they  followed  enthusiastically  the 
man  who  led  them  to  the  field.  Leaders  shook 
grey  heads,  and  leader-writers  disclaimed  a  respon- 
'7  257 


258  QUISANT£. 

sibility  which  primd  facie  had  never  rested  on  them  ; 
Quisant£  was  told  that  he  would  wreck  the  party 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century  to  come.  It  would  per- 
haps have  been  possible  to  meet  Constantine  Blair's 
precedents  with  other  precedents,  to  quote  newer 
gods  against  his  established  deities.  That  was  not 
"  Sandro's  way  "  ;  here  again  he  was  content  to  be 
an  ancestor,  the  originator  of  his  methods,  and  the 
sufficient  authority  for  them. 

He  was  justified.  The  spirit  of  his  fighting  men  ran 
high,  and  his  fighting  men's  wives  grew  gracious  to 
him.  The  majority,  if  they  scowled  at  him  (as  was 
only  to  be  hoped),  began  to  scowl  furtively  at  one  an- 
other also  and  to  say  that  certain  questions,  on  which 
they  were  by  no  means  of  one  mind,  could  not  perma- 
nently be  shirked  and  kept  in  the  background.  Some 
of  them  asked  what  their  constituents  had  sent 
them  to  Westminster  for,  a  question  always  indica- 
tive of  perturbation  in  the  parliamentary  mind  ;  in 
quiet  times  it  is  not  raised.  The  Government  pa- 
pers took  to  observing  that  they  did  not  desire  to 
hurry  or  embarrass  the  Government,  but  that  time 
was  running  on  and  it  would  be  no  true  friendship 
to  advise  it  to  ignore  the  feeling  which  existed 
among  an  important,  if  numerically  small,  section  of 
its  followers.  Altogether  at  the  opening  of  the 
session  the  majority  was  much  less  happy,  the  minor- 
ity in  far  finer  feather,  than  anybody  had  expected. 
Only  officialdom  or  ignorance  could  refuse  the  main 
credit  to  Alexander  Quisante\ 

"  I  declare,"  said  Lady  Castlefort — and  her  opin- 


A  STRANGE  IDEA.  259 

ion  was  not  one  to  neglect — "  May  Gaston  was 
right  to  take  the  man  after  all.  He'll  be  Prime 
Minister."  And  she  settled  her  pince-nez  and  looked 
round  for  contradiction.  She  loved  argument  but 
had  made  the  mistake  of  growing  too  important  to 
be  differed  from.  None  the  less  on  this  occasion 
a  sweet  little  voice  spoke  up  in  the  circle. 

"  I  wouldn't  marry  him  if  he  were  fifty  times 
Prime  Minister,"  said  Lady  Richard  Benyon. 
"  He's  odious." 

"  God  bless  me  ! "  murmured  the  Countess, 
genuinely  startled.  "  Well,  you'll  see,  my  dear," 
she  went  on,  nodding  emphatically.  "  He's  the 
only  man  among  them."  Her  eye  fell  on  Weston 
Marchmont.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  see  you're  there,"  she 
said,  "  and  I'm  very  glad  you  should  be." 

"  It's  always  a  pleasure  to  be  here,"  he  smiled 
urbanely. 

"  Especially,  apparently,  when  you  ought  to 
be  at  the  House,"  she  retorted,  glancing  at  the 
clock.  "  However  to-day  you've  heard  more 
truth  here  than  you're  likely  to  there,  so  I  forgive 
you." 

"  More  truth  here  ?  But  Quisant£'s  making  a 
speech  !  " 

"  Oh,  you're  very  neat,"  she  said  with  an  open 
impatience.  "  You  can  score  off  a  woman  at  her 
tea-table  ;  go  and  score  off  the  other  side,  Weston, 
and  then  you  may  do  it  as  much  as  you  like  to  me. 
As  if  anybody  cared  whether  Mr.  Quisant6  speaks 
the  truth  or  not  !  "  He  came  up  to  her  and  held 


QUISANT£. 

out  his  hand,  smiling  good-naturedly.  She  gave 
him  hers  with  a  laugh,  for  she  liked  him  much  and 
did  not  like  Quisante  at  all.  "  It's  your  own  fault, 
that's  why  you're  so  exasperating,"  she  half-whis- 
pered as  she  bade  him  good-bye. 

Here  was  one  side  ;  on  the  other  the  men  of 
the  City  came  to  know  Quisante*  too,  but,  as  be- 
fitted persons  engaged  in  the  serious  pursuit  of 
dealing  with  money,  gave  more  hesitating  and 
guarded  opinions  ;  no  party  spirit  led  them  astray 
or  fired  them  to  desperate  ventures.  However 
there  was  no  denying  that  the  Alethea  Printing 
Press  sounded  a  very  good  thing,  and  moreover  no 
denying  that  measures  had  been  skilfully  taken  to 
prevent  anybody  having  a  share  in  that  good  thing 
without  paying  handsomely  for  the  privilege.  The 
Syndicate,  speaking  through  Mr.  Mandeville  its 
mouthpiece,  by  no  means  implored  support  or  can- 
vassed new  partners  ;  it  was  prepared  to  admit  one 
or  two  names  of  weight  in  return  for  substantial  aid. 
Mandeville  did  nothing  of  himself  ;  he  referred  to 
the  Board,  and  the  Board's  answers  came  after  Alex- 
ander Quisante"  s  hansom  had  flashed  back  to  West- 
minster. But  a  few  did  gain  admittance,  and  these 
few  were  much  struck  by  the  reports  on  the  Alethea, 
all  of  which  had  been  sent  back  for  revision  to  their 
respective  authors,  accompanied  by  some  new  and 
important  facts.  These  latter  did  not,  as  it  turned 
out,  alter  the  tenor  of  the  reports,  but  it  had  been 
thought  as  well  to  afford  an  opportunity  for  re- 
consideration in  the  light  of  them  ;  so  Mandeville 


A  STRANGE  IDEA.  261 

explained,  seeming  always  just  a  little  nervous  over 
this  matter  of  the  reports. 

"  We  had  hoped,"  he  said  to  one  gentleman  who 
was  rather  important  and  rather  hard  to  satisfy,  "  to 
fortify  ourselves  with  Professor  Maturin's  opinion. 
But  unfortunately  he  died  before  he  could  com- 
plete his  examination,  and  nothing  on  the  subject 
was  found  among  his  papers." 

"  That's  a  pity.  Maturin  would  have  carried  great 
weight." 

"  We  were  quite  alive  to  that,"  Mandeville  assured 
him  with  a  somewhat  uneasy  smile.  His  feelings 
were  not  unlike  those  of  a  quiet  steady-going  mem- 
ber of  Quisante's  party  in  Parliament.  "  We  have  no 
doubt  of  what  his  opinion  would  have  been,  had  he 
been  able  to  study  our  additional  facts  and  been 
spared  to  complete  his  report.  As  it  was,  he  had 
only  discussed  the  matter  informally  with  one  or 
two  of  us."  And  when  he  was  left  alone,  he  mur- 
mured softly,  "  I  suppose  that's  how  Alexander 
meant  me  to  put  it."  But  he  rather  wished  that 
Alexander  had  been  there  to  put  it  himself. 

It  is  perhaps  needless  to  say  that  Aunt  Maria, 
sturdily  fulfilling  her  destiny  in  life,  was  deeply 
concerned  in  the  fortunes  of  the  Alethea  Printing 
Press.  But  large  as  was  her  stake — and  the  possi- 
bilities of  loss  at  least  were  for  her  very  large — she 
was  not  disturbed  ;  she  said  that  heaven  alone  knew 
whether  there  was  anything  in  the  thing,  but  that 
she  knew  that  Sandro  would  make  people  think 
there  was.  Nor  did  she  share  in  any  serious  de- 


262  QUISANTE*. 

gree  the  fears  which  afflicted  her  nephew's  wife ; 
Sandro  always  had  a  case,  and  she  did  not  doubt 
that  he  would  have  a  very  good  one  whereby  to 
justify  any  proceedings  he  might  take  in  regard  to 
the  Alethea.  So  she  lived  frugally,  hoped  magnifi- 
cently, and  came  often  to  Grosvenor  Road  to  pick 
up  what  crumbs  of  information  she  could.  Here 
she  met  Lady  Castlefort  and  nodded  her  rusty 
bonnet  at  that  great  personage  with  the  remark 
that  she  was  glad  people  were  waking  up  to 
what  there  was  in  Sandro  ;  it  was  time,  goodness 
knew.  Lady  Castlefort  was  for  the  moment  taken 
aback. 

"  Mr.  Quisante  has  had  certain — er — difficulties  to 
overcome,"  she  murmured  rather  vaguely,  and  was 
not  reassured  by  a  dry  chuckle  and  the  heartfelt  ex- 
clamation,  "  I  should  think  so  !  "  Altogether  it  was 
difficult  to  make  out  exactly  what  Mr.  Quisant£'s 
aunt  thought  of  him. 

Here  the  old  lady  met  also  the  Dean  of  St. 
Neot's,  who  callec*  every  now  and  then  because  he 
liked  May  and  wished  to  show  that  he  bore  no 
malice  about  the  Crusade  ;  but  the  subject  was  still 
a  sore  one,  and  he  was  as  little  prepared  to  be 
chuckled  at  over  it  as  Lady  Castlefort  had  been 
over  her  diplomatic  indication  of  the  fact  that 
Quisante's  blood  was  not  blue  nor  his  manners 
those  of  a  grand  old  English  gentleman. 

"  Sandro  knew  all  along  that  there  wasn't  much 
in  that,  but  it  was  something  to  begin  with,"  Aunt 
Maria  remarked  to  the  uncomfortable  Dean.  She 


A  STRANGE  IDEA.  263 

herself  had  dragged  in  the  Crusade,  to  which  she 
referred  so  contemptuously. 

"  Miss  Quisant6  will  do  anything  in  the  world  for 
my  husband,"  May  interposed,  "  but  nothing'll  per- 
suade her  to  say  a  good  word  for  him." 

"  As  long  as  that's  understood,  she  does  him  no 
harm.  We  discount  all  you  say,  Miss  Quisante." 

The  Dean's  affability  was  thrown  away  on  Aunt 
Maria. 

"  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about,"  she  remarked 
grimly,  "  and  as  far  as  your  Crusade  goes,  I  should 
think  you'd  have  seen  it  yourself  by  now." 

The  Dean  had  seen  it  himself  by  now,  but  he  did 
not  wish  to  say  so  in  the  presence  of  Quisant£'s 
wife.  May's  laugh  relieved  him  a  little. 

"The  Dean's  very  forgiving,"  she  said,  "and 
Alexander's  doing  well  now,  anyhow,  isn't  he  ?  " 

The  Dean  agreed  that  he  was  doing  well  now — 
for  in  spite  of  his  disclaimers  of  partisanship  there 
was  a  spice  of  the  fighting  man  in  the  Dean — and 
repeated  Lady  Castlefort's  prophecy,  reported  to 
him  by  Lady  Richard.  The  rusty  black  bonnet 
nodded  approvingly.  "  I  knew  that  was  a  sensible 
woman,  in  spite  of  her  airs,"  said  Miss  Quisant£. 

Lastly,  among  those  whom  Miss  Quisant6  en- 
countered at  her  nephew's  house  was  Lady  Mild- 
may,  and  this  interview  took  a  rather  more  serious 
turn.  In  after  days  May  used  to  look  back  to  it  as 
the  first  faint  sign  of  the  new  factor  which  from  now 
began  to  make  itself  felt  in  her  life  and  to  become  a 
very  pressing  presence  to  her.  She  did  not  enjoy 


264  QUISANT£. 

the  friendship  which  the  Mildmays  forced  on  her, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  receive  it  otherwise  than 
with  outward  graciousness ;  the  cordiality  was  so 
kind,  the  interest  so  frank,  Sir  Winterton's  gallantry 
so  chivalrous,  his  wife's  gentleness  so  appealing. 
When  Lady  Mildmay  was  announced  May  found 
time  for  a  hasty  whisper  to  Aunt  Maria  :  "  Take  care 
what  you  say  about  Alexander  before  her."  Doubts 
must  not  be  stirred  in  the  Mildmay  mind ;  the 
Mildmays  must  be  kept  in  their  delusion  ;  to  help 
in  this  was  one  of  the  duties  of  Quisant£'s  wife. 

Lady  Mildmay  smiled  gladly  on  Aunt  Maria. 

"  I'm  so  pleased  you're  here,"  she  said,  "  because 
I  know  you'll  second  me  in  what  I'm  going  to 
venture  to  say  to  Lady  May.  I  know  I'm  taking  a 
liberty,  but  I  can't  help  it.  Meeting  people  now 
and  then,  you  do  sometimes  see  what  people  who 
are  always  with  them  don't.  Now  don't  you,  Miss 
Quisant£  ?  " 

"And  vice  versd"  murmured  Aunt  Maria;  but 
May's  eye  rested  on  her  warningly,  and  she  refrained 
from  pointing  her  observation  by  any  reference  to 
Sandro. 

"  I'm  quite  sure  your  husband  is  overdoing  him- 
self terribly,"  Lady  Mildmay  went  on.  "  I  saw  him 
the  other  day  walking  through  the  Park,  and  he 
looked  ghastly.  I  stopped  him  and  told  him  so,  but 
he  said  he'd  just  been  to  his  doctor,  and  that  there 
was  really  nothing  the  matter  with  him." 

"  I  didn't  know  he'd  been  to  the  doctor  lately. 
He  seemed  pretty  well  for  him,"  said  May.  Aunt 


A  STRANGE  IDEA.  265 

Maria  said  nothing;  her  keen  little  eyes  were  watch- 
ing the  visitor  very  closely. 

"  I've  seen  a  lot  of  illness,"  pursued  Lady  Mild- 
may  in  her  gentle  voice,  "  and  I  know.  He's  work- 
ing himself  to  death  ;  he's  killing  himself."  She 
raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  May.  Kind  as  the 
glance  was,  May  felt  in  it  a  wonder,  almost  a  re- 
proach. "  How  comes  it  that  you,  his  wife,  haven't 
seen  it  too  ?"  the  eyes  seemed  to  say  in  plaintive 
surprise.  "  Are  you  sure  there's  nothing  wrong 
with  him  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Wrong  with  him  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 
The  question  was  Aunt  Maria's,  asked  abruptly, 
roughly,  almost  indignantly.  Lady  Mildmay  started. 
"  I — I  don't  want  to  alarm  you,  I'm  sure,"  she  mur- 
mured, "  but  I  don't  like  his  looks.  Do,  do  per- 
suade him  to  take  a  rest." 

Both  of  them  were  silent  now  ;  Lady  Mildmay's 
wonder  grew  ;  she  did  not  understand  them  ;  she 
saw  them  exchange  a  glance  whose  expression  she 
could  not  analyse. 

"  He  wants  absolute  rest  and  care,  the  care  you 
could  give  him,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  May — such  a 
care  she  meant  as  her  loving  heart  and  hands  would 
give  to  handsome  Sir  Winterton.  "  Go  away  with 
him  for  a  few  months  and  take  care  of  him,  now  do. 
Keep  all  worries  and — and  ambitions  and  so  on 
away  from  him." 

May's  face  was  grave  and  strained  in  a  painful 
attention  ;  but  on  Miss  Quisant£'s  lips  there  came 
slowly  a  bitter  little  smile.  What  a  picture  this 


266  QUISANT£. 

good  lady  drew  of  Sandro  and  his  loving  wife, 
together,  apart  from  the  world,  with  ambitions  and 
worries  set  aside  !  Must  the  outlines  of  that  pic- 
ture be  followed  if — well,  if  Sandro  was  to  live  ? 

"  I  hope  you're  not  offended  ?  Seeing  him  only 
now  and  then  I  notice  the  change.  Winterton  and 
I  have  both  been  feeling  anxious  about  it,  and  we 
decided  that  you  wouldn't  mind  if  I  spoke  to 
you." 

"  You're  too  good,  too  good,"  said  May.  "  We 
don't  deserve  it."  Lady  Mildmay  smiled. 

"  I  know  what  a  strain  the  election  was,"  said 
she.  "  Even  Winterton  felt  it,  and  Mr.  Quisant6 
never  seems  to  rest,  does  he  ?  "  She  rose  to  go, 
but,  as  she  said  good-bye,  she  spoke  one  more 
word,  half  in  a  whisper  and  timidly,  "  I  daresay 
I'm  wrong,  but  are  you  sure  his  heart's  quite 
sound  ?"  And  so  she  left  them,  excusing  herself  to 
the  last  for  what  might  seem  an  intrusion,  or  even  a 
slight  on  the  careful  watch  that  an  affectionate  wife 
keeps  over  her  husband's  health. 

May  walked  to  the  hearthrug  and  stood  there  ; 
Aunt  Maria,  sitting  very  still,  glanced  up  with  a 
frightened  gaze,  but  her  speech  came  bitter  with 
aggressive  scorn. 

"What  does  the  silly  creature  mean?"  she 
asked.  "  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  Sandro, 
is  there  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  there  is,"  May  answered 
slowly. 

"  The  woman  talks  as  if  he  was  going  to  die." 


A  STRANGE  IDEA.  267 

Still  the  tone  was  contemptuous,  still  the  look 
frightened.  "  Such  nonsense  !  " 

"  I   hope  it  is.     He's  not  strong  though,  is  he  ?" 

Miss  Quisante"  had  often  said  the  same,  but  now 
she  received  the  remark  irritably.  "  Strong  !  He's 
not  a  buffalo  like  some  men,  like  Jimmy  Benyon  or, 
I  suppose,  that  poor  creature's  husband  she's  always 
talking  about.  But  there's  nothing  the  matter  with 
him,  there's  no  reason  he  shouldn't — no  reason  he 
should  fall  ill  at  all." 

"  She  thinks  he  ought  to  rest,  perhaps  give  up 
altogether." 

"Altogether?  Nonsense!"  The  tone  was 
sharp. 

"  Well,  then,  for  a  long  while." 

"And  go  away,  and  let  you  coddle  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  let  me  coddle  him."  May  looked 
down  on  Aunt  Maria,  and  for  the  first  time  smiled 
faintly. 

"  The  woman's  out  of  her  senses,"  declared  Aunt 
Maria  testily.  "  Don't  you  think  so  ?  Don't  you 
think  so  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  all  May  could  say  in  answer 
either  to  the  irritation  of  the  voice  or  to  the  fear  of 
the  eyes.  The  old  lady's  hands  were  trembling  as 
she  raised  them  and  gave  a  pull  to  the  bow  of  her 
bonnet-strings. 

"He'll  see  me  out  anyhow,  I'll  be  bound,"  she 
said  obstinately.  She  was  fighting  against  the  bare 
idea  of  being  left  with  a  remnant  of  life  to  live  and 
no  Sandro  to  fill  it  for  her ;  what  a  miserable  fag- 


268  QUISANTE. 

end  of  empty  waiting  that  would  be  !  She  glanced 
sharply  at  his  wife ;  she  did  not  know  what  his  wife 
was  thinking  of. 

"I'll  ask  him,"  said  May,  "and  I  must  insist  on 
knowing.  She  paused  and  added,  "  I  ought  to 
have  noticed  and  I  ought  to  have  asked  before. 

But  somehow "  The  sentence  went  unfinished, 

and  Aunt  Maria's  sharp  unsatisfied  eyes  drew  no 
further  answer.  May  kissed  her  when  they  parted  ; 
whatever  this  idea  might  mean  to  her,  whatever  the 
strange  tumult  it  might  raise  in  her,  she  read  well 
enough  the  story  of  the  old  lady's  rough  tones, 
shaking  hands  and  frightened  eyes.  To  the  old 
woman  Sandro  was  the  sum  of  life.  She  might 
sneer,  she  might  scorn,  she  might  rail,  she  might  and 
would  suffer  at  his  hands.  But  he  was  the  one 
thing,  the  sole  support,  she  had  to  cling  to ;  he  kept 
her  alive.  Yet  the  last  words  that  Miss  Quisant6  said 
were,"  I  expect  Sandro  wanted  to  wheedle  something 
out  of  that  woman,  and  has  been  playing  one  of  his 
tricks  to  get  a  bit  of  sympathy."  Then  she  climbed 
slowly  and  totteringly  down  the  stairs. 

Left  alone,  May  Quisantd  sat  in  apparent  idle- 
ness, letting  her  thoughts  play  with  a  freedom 
which  some  people  consider  in  itself  blameworthy, 
though  certainly  no  action  and  often  no  desire  ac- 
company the  picture  which  the  mind  draws.  She 
said  to  herself,  "  Supposing  this  is  true,  or  that 
more  than  this  is  true,  supposing  his  heart  is  un- 
sound, what  does  it  mean  to  me?"  What  it  ex- 
cluded was  easier  to  realise  than  what  it  meant. 


A  STRANGE  IDEA.  269 

Unless  Quisant£  were  to  have  not  existence  only,  but 
also  health,  such  health  at  least  as  enables  a  man  to 
do  work  although  not,  may  be,  to  glory  in  the  doing 
of  it,  unless  there  were  to  the  engine  wheels  sound 
enough  to  answer  to  the  spur  of  the  steam  that  his 
brain's  furnace  made,  nothing  could  come  about  of 
what  Lady  Castlefort's  Mightiness  prophesied,  noth- 
ing of  what  friends  and  enemies  had  begun  to  look 
for,  nothing  of  what  May  herself  had  grown  to  re- 
gard as  his  future  and  hers,  as  the  basis,  the  con- 
dition, the  circumstances,  of  her  life  and  of  his.  An 
old  thought  of  her  own  came  to  her,  back  from  the 
dim  region  of  ante-marriage  days,  the  idea  to  which 
the  Henstead  doctor  had  given  a  terse,  if  metaphor- 
ical, expression.  Quisant£  was  their  race-horse,  their 
money  was  on  him,  they  wanted  a  win  for  the 
stable.  If  this  or  more  than  this  were  true,  then 
there  would  be  no  win  for  the  stable  ;  the  horse  was 
a  grand  horse,  but  he  wouldn't  stand  training.  What 
was  left  then  ?  An  invalid  and  the  wife  of  an  in- 
valid, coddlings,  cossetings,  devotion,  ambition  far 
away,  life  kept  in  him  by  loving  heart  and  loving 
hands.  Hers  must  be  the  heart  and  the  hands. 
Hers  also  were  the  keen  eyes  that  knew  every  weak- 
ness, every  baseness,  of  the  man  to  whom  heart  and 
hands  must  minister,  but  would  see  no  more  the 
battle  and  the  triumph  and  the  brilliance  which  set 
them  sparkling  and  seemed  to  make  the  world 
alight  for  them. 

For  a  little  while  the  third  thing,  the  remaining 
possibility,  was  unformulated  in  her  thoughts;  per- 


270  QUISANT£. 

haps  she  had  a  scruple  which  made  her  turn  away 
from  it.  But  her  speculations  would  not  be  denied 
their  irresponsible  freedom  of  ranging  over  all  the 
field  of  chance.  If  it  were  true,  if  more  than  it, 
more  than  the  kind  timid  woman  had  dared  to  say, 
were  true,  he  might  die.  He  might  die,  not  in  some 
dim  far-off  time  when  nature  made  the  thing  seem 
inevitable,  when  he  had  lived  his  life,  been  Prime 
Minister  and  so  forth,  and  she  had  lived  hers,  fill- 
ing it  with  work  for  him,  and  with  looking  on  at 
him  and  with  endurance  of  him,  but  sooner,  much 
sooner,  almost  now,  when  he  had  not  lived  his  life, 
while  hers  was  not  exhausted,  when  there  would 
still  be  left  to  her  another  of  her  own  to  live  after  he 
was  gone.  It  was  strange  to  think  of  that,  to  see 
how  what  had  seemed  to  be  irrevocable  and  for  ever, 
to  stretch  in  unfaltering  perpetuity  to  the  limits  of 
old  age,  might  so  easily,  by  the  occasion  of  so  small 
a  matter  as  a  heart  not  sound,  turn  out  to  be  a  pass- 
ing thing,  and  there  come  to  her  again  freedom, 
choice,  a  life  to  be  re-made.  If  that  happened,  how 
would  she  feel  ?  At  the  new-learnt  chance  of  that 
happening,  how  did  she  feel  ?  Very  strange,  very 
bewildered,  very  upset ;  that  was  her  answer.  Such 
a  thing — Quisant6's  death  she  meant — would  mean 
so  much,  change  so  much,  take  away  so  much — and 
might  give  so  much.  Her  thoughts  flew  off  to  the 
new  life  that  she  might  live  then,  to  the  new  freedom 
from  embarrassments,  from  fears  and  from  disgusts, 
to  a  new  love  which  it  might  be  hers  to  gain  and  to 
enjoy.  People  said  that  it  was  always  impossible 


A  STRANGE  IDEA.  371 

to  go  back — vestigia  nulla.  But  that  event  would 
open  to  her  a  sort  of  going  back,  such  a  return  to 
her  old  life  and  her  surroundings  as  might  some 
day  make  the  time  she  had  spent  with  Quisant6 
and  its  experiences  seem  but  an  episode,  studding 
the  belt  of  long  days  with  one  strange  bizarre  orna- 
ment. 

And  on  the  other  side  ?  There  was  the  great- 
est difficulty,  the  greatest  puzzle.  She  had  not 
failed  to  understand  the  roughness  of  Aunt  Maria's 
tones,  her  frightened  eyes  and  the  shaking  of 
her  hands.  It  would  be  very  strange  to  see  an 
end  of  him,  to  know  that  he  would  never  be  Prime 
Minister  and  so  forth,  to  look  on  at  a  world  devoid 
of  him,  to  live  a  life  in  which  he  was  only  a  memory. 
How  were  the  scales  to  be  held,  which  way  did  the 
balance  incline  ?  She  could  not  tell,  and  at  last  she 
smiled  at  her  inability  to  answer  the  riddle.  It 
would  amuse  people  so  much,  and  shock  some 
people  so  much  and  doubtless  so  properly,  if  they 
knew  that  she  was  sitting  in  her  drawing-room  in 
the  afternoon,  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  whether 
she  would  rather  her  husband  lived  or  that  he  died. 
Even  there  the  fallacy  crept  in  ;  she  was  not  desiring 
either  way  ;  she  was  simply  looking  at  the  two  pic- 
tures which  the  two  events  painted  for  her  fancy ; 
and  she  did  not  know  which  picture  she  preferred. 
So  all  was  still  bewilderment,  all  still  rocking  from 
the  sudden  gust  that  had  proceeded  out  of  dear 
Lady  Mildmay's  gentle  lips.  But  the  undercurrent 
of  wonder  and  of  reproach  that  there  had  been  in 


272  QUISANT£. 

the  warning  May  Quisant6  now  almost  missed.  By 
an  effort  at  last  she  realised  its  presence,  the  natu- 
ralness of  it,  and  its  Tightness.  But  still  it  seemed 
to  her  a  little  conventional,  something  that  might 
be  supposed  to  be  appropriate,  but  was  not,  if  the 
truth  were  faced.  "  Alexander  and  I  have  never 
been  like  that  to  one  another — at  least  never  for 
more  than  a  very  little  while,"  was  the  form  her 
thought  about  it  took. 

When  he  came  in  that  evening,  she  found  herself 
looking  at  him  with  wonder,  and  with  a  sort  of 
scepticism  about  what  her  visitor  had  said.  He 
seemed  so  full  of  life ;  it  was  impossible  to  think  of 
him  as  being  likely,  or  even  able,  to  die.  But  she 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  open  the  subject  to  him,  to 
force  something  from  him,  and  to  learn  about  this 
visit  to  the  doctor  which  he  had  so  studiously  con- 
cealed from  her.  She  gave  him  tea,  and  was  so  far 
affected  by  her  mood  as  to  show  unusual  kindness 
towards  him,  or  rather  to  let  her  uniform  friendli- 
ness be  tinged  by  an  affection  which  was  not  part 
of  her  habitual  bearing ;  with  the  help  of  this  she 
hoped  to  lead  up  to  a  subject  which  her  own 
strangely  mixed  meditations  somehow  made  it 
hard  for  her  to  approach.  But  Quisant6  also  had  a 
scheme ;  he  also  was  watching  and  working  for  an 
opportunity,  and  seeing  one  now  in  her  great  cor- 
diality of  manner  he  seized  it  with  his  rapid  de- 
cisiveness, cutting  in  before  his  wife  had  time  to 
develop  her  attack.  He  pressed  her  hand  as  she 
gave  him  his  cup,  sighed  as  though  in  weariness, 


A  STPANGE  IDEA.  273 

took  a  paper  from  his  pocket,  and  laid  it  on  the 
table,  giving  it  a  tentative  gentle  push  in  the  direc- 
tion of  her  chair. 

"  We've  got  the  Alethea  afloat  at  last,"  he  said. 
"  There's  the  prospectus,  if  you  care  to  look  at  it." 
With  this  he  glanced  at  the  clock,  sighed  again  and 
added,  "I  must  be  at  the  House  early  this  evening. 
By  Jove,  I'm  tired  though  !  "  This  little  odd  in- 
eradicable trick  of  his  made  May  smile  ;  he  was 
never  so  tired  as  when  he  had  a  risky  card  to  play ; 
then,  indeed,  he  affected  for  his  purposes  some  sort 
of  reconcilability  with  those  incongruous  ideas  of 
collapse  and  mortality  that  Lady  Mildmay  had  sug- 
gested. He  inspired  May,  as  he  did  sometimes  now, 
with  a  malicious  wish  to  make  him  show  himself  at 
his  trickiest.  Fingering  the  prospectus  carelessly, 
she  asked, 

"  I  suppose  it  sets  out  all  the  wonderful  merits  of 
the  Alethea,  doesn't  it  ?  Well,  I've  heard  a  good 
deal  about  them.  I  don't  think  I  need  read  it." 

"  It  gives  a  full  account  of  the  invention,"  said 
Quisante',  wearily  passing  his  hand  across  his  brow. 

"  Have  you  put  in  Professor  Maturin's  report?" 
She  was  not  looking  at  him,  but  smiling  over  to 
Mr.  Foster  on  the  mantelpiece.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's pause. 

"  The  facts  about  Maturin  are  fully  stated.  You'll 
find  it  on  the  third  page."  He  rose  with  a  sigh  and 
threw  himself  on  the  sofa  ;  he  groaned  a  little  and 
shut  his  eyes.  May  glanced  at  him,  smiled,  and 
turned  to  the  third  page. 
18 


274  QUISANT£. 

"  In  addition  to  the  foregoing  very  authoritative 
opinions,  steps  were  taken  to  obtain  a  report  from 
the  late  Professor  Maturin,  F.R.S.  Professor  Ma- 
turin  was  very  favourably  impressed  with  several 
features  of  the  invention,  and  was  about  to  pursue 
his  investigations  with  the  aid  of  further  informa- 
tion furnished  to  him,  when  he  was  unfortunately 
attacked  by  the  illness  of  which  he  recently  died. 
The  Directors  therefore  regret  to  be  unable  to  pre- 
sent any  report  of  his  examination.  But  they  have 
every  reason  to  believe  that  his  opinion  would  have 
been  no  less  encouraging  than  those  of  the  other 
gentlemen  consulted." 

May  turned  back  to  the  list  of  directors.  Three 
out  of  the  six  she  did  not  know;  the  other  three 
were  Quisante  himself,  Jimmy  Benyon,  and  Sir 
Winterton  Mildmay.  The  presence  of  these  two 
last  names  filled  May  with  a  feeling  of  helplessness; 
this  was  worse  than  she  had  expected.  Of  course 
neither  Jimmy  nor  Sir  Winterton  had  heard  any- 
thing about  the  Maturin  report ;  of  the  other  three 
she  knew  nothing  and  took  no  thought.  Jimmy, 
not  warned,  alas,  by  that  affair  of  old  Foster's  note, 
and  Sir  Winterton,  in  the  chivalrous  confidence  of 
perfect  trust,  had  given  their  support  to  Quisante. 
The  use  he  made  of  their  names  was  to  attach  them 
to  a  statement  which  she  who  knew  of  the  Maturin 
report  could  describe  only  in  oneway.  She  looked 
round  at  her  husband's  pale  face  and  closed  eyes. 

"  I  thought  you  were  supposed  to  tell  the — I 
mean,  to  state  all  the  facts  in  a  prospectus  ?  "  she 
said. 


A  STRANGE  IDEA.  275 

Quisantd  sat  up  suddenly,  leant  forward,  and 
spread  his  hands  out.  "  My  dear  May,"  he  replied 
with  a  smile,"  the  facts  are  stated,  stated  very  fully." 

"  There's  nothing  about  the  report  the  Professor 
did  give.  You  remember  you  told  me  about  it?" 

"  Oh,  no,  he  gave  no  report." 

"  Well,  you  called  it' a  draft  report." 

"  No,  no,  did  I  ?  That  was  a  careless  way  of 
speaking  if  I  did.  He  certainly  sent  me  some  con- 
siderations which  had  occurred  to  him  at  the  be- 
ginning of  his  inquiry,  but  they  were  based  on  in- 
sufficient information  and  were  purely  provisional. 
They  did  not  in  any  sense  constitute  a  report.  It 
would  have  been  positively  misleading  to  speak  of 
them  in  any  such  way."  He  was  growing  eager, 
animated,  almost  excited. 

May  was  not  inclined  to  cross-examine  him  ;  she 
knew  that  he  would  develop  his  case  for  himself  if 
she  sat  and  listened. 

"  The  whole  thing  was  so  inchoate  as  to  be  worth 
nothing,"  he  went  on.  "  We  simply  discarded  it 
from  our  minds ;  we  didn't  let  it  weigh  one  way  or 
the  other." 

"  The  directors  didn't  ?  "  That  little  question 
she  could  not  resist  asking. 

"  Oh,  it  was  never  laid  before  them.  As  I  tell  you, 
Mandeville  and  I  decided  that  it  could  not  be 
regarded  as  a  report,  or  even  as  an  indication  of 
Maturin's  opinion.  We  only  referred  to  Maturin  at 
all  because — because  we  wanted  to  be  absolutely 
candid." 

May  smiled ;    absolute    candour   resulted,    as    it 


276  QUISANT£. 

seemed  to  her,  in  giving  rise  to  an  impression  that 
the  Professor  had  been  in  favour  of  the  merits  of 
the  Alethea. 

"  And  you  won't  show  it  to  the  directors?  " 

"  No,"  said  Quisant£,  "  certainly  not."  He  paused 
for  a  moment  and  then  added  slowly,  "  In  fact  it 
has  not  been  preserved.  What  is  stated  there  is 
based  on  my  own  personal  discussions  with  the 
Professor,  and  on  Mandeville's ;  the  few  lines  he 
wrote  added  nothing." 

It  had  not  been  preserved ;  it  had  sunk  from  a 
report  to  a  draft  report,  from  a  draft  report  to  con- 
siderations, from  considerations  to  a  few  lines  which 
added  nothing;  the  minimising  process,  pursued  a 
little  further,  had  ended  in  a  total  disappearance. 
And  nobody  knew  that  it  had  ever  existed,  even  as 
considerations,  even  as  a  few  lines  adding  nothing, 
except  her  husband,  cousin  Mandeville,  and  herself. 

"  If  the  Professor  himself,"  Quisant£  resumed, 
"  had  considered  it  of  any  moment,  he  would  have 
kept  a  copy  or  some  memorandum  of  it ;  but  there 
was  not  a  word  about  it  among  his  papers." 

There  was  safety,  then,  so  far  as  the  Professor 
was  concerned ;  and  so  far  as  Quisant6  was  con- 
cerned ;  of  course,  also,  so  far  as  cousin  Mandeville 
was  concerned.  But  Quisant£'s  restless  eyes  seemed 
to  ask  whether  there  were  perfect  safety  all  round, 
no  possibility  of  Jimmy  or  Sir  Winterton  or  any- 
body else  picking  up  false  ideas  from  careless  talk 
about  the  few  lines  in  which  the  Professor  had  added 
nothing.  For  an  instant  May's  eyes  met  his,  and 
she  understood  what  he  asked  of  her.  She  was  to 


A  STRANGE  IDEA.  277 

hold  her  tongue  ;  that  sounded  simple.  She  had 
held  her  tongue  before,  and  thus  it  happened  that 
Sir  Winterton  was  her  husband's  friend  and  trusted 
him.  Now  she  was  again  to  be  a  party  to  deceiving 
him,  and  this  time  Jimmy  Benyon  was  to  be  hood- 
winked too.  She  was  to  hold  her  tongue ;  if  by 
any  chance  need  arose,  she  was  to  lie.  That  was 
the  request  Quisante"  made  of  her,  part  of  the  price 
of  being  Quisant£'s  wife. 

She  gave  him  no  pledge  in  words ;  a  touch  of  the 
tact  that  taught  him  how  to  deal  with  difficult 
points  prevented  him  from  asking  one  of  her.  But 
it  was  quite  understood  between  them  ;  no  reference 
was  to  be  made  to  the  few  lines  that  the  Professor 
had  written.  Quisant6's  uneasiness  passed  away, 
his  headache  seemed  to  become  less  severe ;  he  was 
in  good  spirits  as  he  made  his  preparations  to  go 
to  the  House.  Apparently  he  had  no  consciousness 
of  having  asked  anything  great  of  her.  He  had 
been  far  more  nervous  and  shamefaced  about  his 
betrayal  of  the  Crusade,  far  more  upset  by  the  un- 
toward incident  of  Mr.  Foster's  letter.  May  told 
herself  that  she  understood  why ;  he  was  getting  ac- 
customed to  her  and  she  to  him  ;  he  knew  her  point 
of  view  and  allowed  for  it,  expecting  a  similar  tol- 
eration in  return.  As  she  put  it,  they  were  getting 
equalised,  approaching  more  nearly  to  one  another's 
level.  You  could  not  aid  in  queer  doings  and  reap 
the  fruits  of  them  without  suffering  some  gradual 
subtle  moral  change  which  must  end  in  making 
them  seem  less  queer.  As  the  years  passed  by, 
the  longer  their  companionship  lasted,  the  more 


2/8  QUISANT£. 

their  partnership  demanded  in  its  community  of  in- 
terest and  effort,  the  more  this  process  must  go  on. 
As  they  rose  before  the  world — for  rise  they  would 
(even  the  Alethea  would  succeed  in  spite  of  the 
Professor's  burked  report) — they  would  fall  in  their 
own  hearts  and  in  one  another's  eyes.  This  was 
the  prospect  that  stretched  before  her,  as  she  sat 
again  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  after  Quisante  had 
set  out,  much  better,  greatly  rested,  in  good  spirits, 
serene  and  safe,  and  after  she  had  pledged  herself 
to  his  fortunes  by  the  sacrifice  of  loyalty  to  friends 
and  to  truth. 

Yes,  that  was  the  prospect  unless — she  started 
a  little.  She  had  forgotten  what  she  had  meant  to 
ask  him ;  she  had  not  inquired  about  his  visit  to 
the  doctor  nor  told  him  that  kind  Lady  Mildmay 
was  anxious  about  his  health.  It  had  all  been  driven 
out  of  her  head,  she  said  to  herself  in  excuse  at 
first.  Then  she  faced  her  feelings  more  boldly.  Just 
then  she  could  have  put  no  such  questions,  feigned 
no  such  interest,  and  assumed  no  show  of  affection 
or  solicitude.  That  evening  such  things  would  have 
been  mere  hypocrisy,  pretences  of  a  desire  to  keep 
him  for  herself  when  her  whole  nature  was  in  re- 
volt at  having  to  be  near  him.  Her  horror  now  was 
not  that  she  might  lose  him,  but  of  the  prospect  that 
lay  before  her  and  the  road  she  must  tread  with 
him.  Trodden  it  must  be  ;  unless  by  any  chance 
there  were  truth,  or  less  than  the  truth,  in  what 
good  Lady  Mildmay  said. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE   IRREVOCABLE. 

So  far  as  May  Quisant6's  distress  had  its  rise  in 
her  husband's  treatment  of  Sir  Winterton  Mildmay, 
she  was  entitled  to  take  some  comfort  from  that 
gentleman's  extreme  happiness.  He  had  lost  a  seat 
in  Parliament,  thanks  to  Tom  Sinnett  and  the  ac- 
count to  which  Tom  Sinnett  had  been  turned  ;  he 
had  been  caused  to  represent  to  the  world  that  the 
Alethea  Printing  Press  had  lost  Professor  Maturin's 
express  approval  only  by  the  accident  of  the  Pro- 
fessor's lamented  decease.  The  one  wrong  he  for- 
got, the  other  he  did  not  know.  It  was  a  favourite 
tenet  of  his  that  an  English  gentleman  ought  to  be 
able  to  turn  his  hand  to  everything — everything 
honourable,  of  course — and  should  at  once  shine  in 
any  sphere  of  practical  activity.  He  saw  the  tri- 
umph of  his  opinion,  and  found  his  own  delight,  in  his 
new  part  of  a  business  man.  His  brougham  rolled 
down  to  Dowgate  Hill  almost  every  day ;  he  de- 
lighted to  lunch  with  Mandeville  or  to  entertain  the 
Secretary  of  the  Company  at  the  midday  meal ;  busi- 
ness could  be  made  to  last  till  three  when  there  was 
no  Board,  till  four  if  there  were ;  then  Sir  Winter- 
ton  drove  to  his  club  and  sat  down  to  his  cards  with 

a  rich  consciousness  of  commercial  importance.     He 

279 


280  QUISANT£. 

believed  in  the  Alethea  with  a  devotion  and  a  thor- 
oughness second  only  to  the  unquestioning  faith  and 
obedience  which  he  now  had  at  the  service  of  Alex- 
ander Quisant£.  Many  an  amazed  secret  stare  and 
many  a  sour  smile  his  eulogies  drew  from  cousin 
Mandeville ;  for  even  in  his  enthusiasm  Sir  Winter- 
ton  praised  with  discrimination  ;  it  was  the  sterling 
worth,  the  heart  of  the  man,  that  he  admired  ;  shal- 
low people  stuck  at  superficial  defects  of  manner ; 
not  such  was  Sir  Winterton.  *'  I  trust  him  as  I  do 
myself,"  he  used  to  say  to  Lady  Mildmay,  and  she, 
in  honest  joy,  posted  off  with  the  testimonial  to 
May  Quisant£;  besides  she  was  eager  to  seize  a 
chance  of  throwing  out  another  hint  or  two  about 
Quisant£'s  health. 

The  Alethea,  at  least,  seemed  to  be  going  to 
prove  worthy  of  these  laudations.  There  really 
had,  it  appeared,  been  some  good  reason  why  the 
Professor  should  reconsider  his  considerations.  The 
invention  stood  the  test  of  criticism  and  experi- 
ment ;  it  saved  a  lot  of  expense  ;  the  idea  got  about 
more  and  more  that  it  was  an  uncommonly  good 
thing ;  the  two  or  three  papers  which  were  inquisi- 
tive about  the  actual  views  of  the  Professor  were 
treated  with  disdain  (one  with  advertisements  also) 
and  their  clamour  went  almost  unnoticed.  There 
was  a  demand  for  the  shares.  Sir  Winterton  pointed 
out  to  Weston  Marchmont  what  a  mistake  he  had 
committed  in  not  accepting  the  offer  of  an  allotment 
which  had  been  made  to  him. 

"  The  only  thing  for  which  I  value  independent 
means,"  said  Marchmont,  "  is  that  they  relieve  me 


THE  IRREVOCABLE.  281 

from  the  necessity  of  imposing  on  the  public.  I 
suppose  my  ancestors  did  it  for  me.*' 

Sir  Winterton  laughed  serenely.  "  We're  serving 
the  public,"  said  he.  Then  he  remembered  the  new 
man  of  business  in  him,  and  added,  with  a  slyness 
obvious  from  across  the  street,  "  Oh,  and  ourselves 
too,  ourselves  too,  I  admit  that." 

"  And  you,  Jimmy?"  asked  Marchmont,  turning 
to  him ;  they  made  a  group  of  three  at  the  club. 

"  I  don't  think  Quisante'll  go  far  wrong,"  said 
Jimmy.  "You  know  Dick's  gone  in  too?" 

"  What,  after  the  Crusade?  " 

"  This  is  another  sort  of  game,"  said  Jimmy,  with 
a  grim  smile  ;  he  had  gone  in  after  both  the  Crusade 
and  the  Sinnett  affair.  He  turned  to  Sir  Winterton ; 
"Old  Foster  of  Henstead's  in  it  too;  he's  pretty 
wide-awake,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  we  Henstead  fellows  have  heads  on  our 
shoulders,"  said  Sir  Winterton,  but  he  looked  a 
little  less  happy  ;  he  had  never  acquitted  Foster 
with  the  confidence  that  Quisant£  had  won  from 
him. 

"  And  you'll  grow  rich  against  your  wedding, 
Jimmy?"  asked  Marchmont. 

Again  Jimmy  smiled.  The  wedding  was  near 
now,  and  the  next  day  he  was  going  to  Ashwood 
to  meet  Fanny  Gaston. 

"You're  going  to  Dick's  on  Friday,  aren't  you?" 
he  said  to  Marchmont. 

"  I  believe  I  am." 

"  Ah,  then  you  shall  hear  about  our  show  from 
Quisant6  himself." 


282  QUISANT£. 

"  What?"  Weston  Marchmont's  tone  expressed 
surprise  rather  than  pleasure. 

"  May's  going  to  be  there,  and  he's  coming  for 
the  Sunday.  Amy  fought  hard,  but  Dick  said  he 
must  come,  because  he  was  going  to  be  a  connection." 
Jimmy's  slow  smile  endured  all  through  this 
speech ;  he  had  a  sense  of  humour  which  he  treated 
gravely. 

"  I  didn*t  know  he  was  coming,"  said  March- 
mont.  Sir  Winterton  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

*'  You're  the  most  prejudiced  fellow  in  the  world, 
Marchmont,"  he  said.  "  I  tell  you  what,  though," 
he  went  on.  "  Do  persuade  Lady  May  to  take  care 
of  her  husband,  or  get  him  to  take  care  of  himself. 
My  wife's  been  at  her  again  and  again,  but  nothing's 
done.  The  man's  not  well,  he'll  break  up  if  they 
aren't  careful."  He  paused,  and  a  puzzled  look 
came  over  his  handsome  candid  face.  "  If  I  was 
half  as  bad  as  he  is,  my  wife'd  have  me  in  bed  or  off 
to  the  seaside  in  a  jiffy,"  he  ended. 

The  silence  that  followed  struck  him  much  as 
May's  and  Aunt  Maria's  had  struck  his  wife. 
Neither  he  nor  his  wife  were  accustomed  to  the  way 
in  which  people  who  knew  Quisant£  close  at  hand 
came  to  stand  towards  him. 

"I  suppose  Lady  May's  not  what  you'd  call  a 
very  domestic  woman?"  he  hazarded.  "Charm- 
ing, most  charming,  but  full  of  politics  and  that  sort 
of  thing,  eh?" 

To  Weston  Marchmont  it  seemed  simplest  to 
laugh  and  say,  "  I  suppose  so."  Sir  Winter-ton's 
mind  had  need  of  categories,  and  was  best  not  bur- 


THE  IRREVOCABLE.  283 

dened  with  the  complexities  of  an  individual.  But 
Jimmy  was  not  so  wise. 

"  I  don't  think  she  cares  a  hang  about  politics,  ex- 
cept so  far  as  Quisante's  concerned  in  them,"  he  said. 

Sir  Winterton  looked  more  puzzled  still.  "  Noth- 
ing's any  good  unless  he  keeps  his  health,"  he 
murmured.  He  was  uncomfortable  ;  he  liked  May 
very  much,  and  did  not  welcome  the  thought  of 
there  being  any  truth  in  the  idea  of  indifference 
and  carelessness  about  her  husband  at  which  Lady 
Mildmay  had  sorrowfully  hinted.  "  That's  his 
wife's  first  business  anyhow,"  he  ended,  a  trifle  de- 
fiantly. But  his  challenge  was  not  taken  up  by 
either  of  his  friends.  He  went  home  with  his  high 
spirits  rather  dashed. 

On  the  Friday  Marchmont  found  himself  travel- 
ling down  to  Ashwood  in  company  with  Mr.  More- 
wood.  The  painter  had  an  extreme  fit  of  his 
mocking  acidity ;  he  refrained  his  tongue  from  no. 
body  and  showed  no  respect  for  what  might  be 
guessed  to  be  delicate  points  with  his  companion. 
Quisante's  success  was  his  principal  theme ;  he  ex- 
hibited it  in  its  four  aspects,  political,  social, 
commercial,  and  matrimonial. 

'  I've  talked,"  he  said,  "  to  Constantine  Blair,  to 
Lady  Castlefort,  to  Winterton  Mildmay,  and  to 
Jimmy  Benyon.  There's  nothing  left  for  all  of  us  but 
to  fall  down  and  worship.  On  to  your  knees  with 
the  rest  of  us,  my  friend  !  In  every  relation  of  life 
the  man  is  great.  You'll  say  he's  objectionable. 
Quite  so.  Greatness  always  is.  You're  still  pleas- 
ant, because  you  haven't  become  great." 


284  QUISANT£. 

"  A  few  people  think  you  a  great  artist." 

"  Quite  a  few,"  grinned  Morewood.  "  I  can  still 
set  up  for  being  pleasant." 

This  mood  did  not  leave  him  with  his  arrival  at 
Ashwood.  He  reminded  Marchmont  of  a  monkey 
who  had  some  trick  to  play,  and  grinned  and  chat- 
tered in  anticipation  of  his  cruel  fun ;  his  smile  was 
most  mocking  when  he  greeted  May  Quisant6. 
She  was  in  high  spirits;  girlish  gaiety  marked  a 
holiday  mood  in  her.  Morewood  seemed  to  encour- 
age it  with  malicious  care,  letting  it  grow  that  he 
might  strike  at  it  with  better  effect  later  on.  Yet 
what  did  the  man  know,  what  could  he  do?  And 
though  Dick  Benyon  winced  at  his  darts,  and 
Jimmy  grew  a  little  sulky,  May  herself  seemed  un- 
conscious of  them.  She  was  ready  to  meet  him  in 
talk  about  her  husband  and  her  husband's  plans ; 
she  laughed  at  his  jibes  in  all  the  apparent  security 
of  a  happy  confidence.  Such  a  state  of  things 
exactly  suited  Lady  Richard ;  she  would  not  wish 
May  to  be  pained,  but  she  enjoyed  infinitely  any 
legitimate  "  dig  "  at  her  old  enemy.  May  fought 
with  equal  gallantry  and  good  temper. 

"  Success  is  our  crime,"  she  said  gaily  at  dinner. 
"  Mr.  Morewood  can't  forgive  it.  You  call  us 
Philistines  now,  I  expect,  don't  you?" 

"  Philistines  in  the  very  highest  degree,"  he 
nodded. 

"  I  know,*'  she  cried.  "  The  only  really  culti- 
vated thing  is  to  fail  elegantly." 

"Let's  bow  our  acknowledgments,"  Morewood 
called  across  to  Marchmont. 


THE  IRREVOCABLE.  285 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Marchmont  isn't  like  that.  He 
doesn't  even  try.  Well,  perhaps  that's  still  more 
superior."  She  smiled  at  Marchmont,  shaking  her 
head.  "  But  we  try,  we  try  everything." 

The  "  we "  grated  still  on  Marchmont's  feelings, 
and  the  worse  because  it  seemed  to  come  more 
easily  and  naturally  from  her  lips.  Yet  that  might 
be  only  the  result  of  practice  ;  she  had  looked  at  him 
in  a  merry  defiance  as  the  last  words  left  her  lips. 

"  And  you  get  other  people  to  try  your  things 
too,"  pursued  Morewood. 

"  Look  here,  you  don't  mean  me,  do  you  ? " 
Jimmy  Benyon  put  in.  "  Because  I'm  not  trying 
Fanny ;  on  the  contrary,  she's  trying  me." 

"  What,  already?  "  asked  Dick  with  exaggerated  ap- 
prehension. "  What'll  it  be  when  you're  married  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Morewood,  "  now  what  is  it  when 
you're  married?  Does  any  duly  qualified  person 
wish  to  answer  the  question?"  His  mischievous 
glance  rested  again  on  May  Quisant6. 

•'  Oh,  marriage  is  all  right,"  said  Dick,  raising 
his  voice  to  allow  his  wife  to  hear.  "  At  least  it's 
not  so  bad  as  things  go  in  this  world.  It's  giving 
a  shilling  and  getting  back  eleven-pence." 

There  was  a  little  murmur  of  applause.  "  I 
declare  every  married  person  at  the  table  seems  to 
endorse  the  opinion,"  said  Marchmont  with  a  laugh. 
"We'll  keep  our  shillings,  I  think,  Morewood." 

"  You'd  better  wait  till  somebody  offers  you 
change,"  advised  Lady  Richard. 

"  Meanwhile  we've  had  an  admirable  expert 
opinion,"  said  Marchmont. 


286  QUISANTfi. 

"  Which  we  believe,"  added  Morewood,  "  as  im- 
plicitly as  we  do  in  the  excellence  of  the  Alethea 
Printing  Press." 

"  Hallo,  are  you  in  it  too  ?  "  cried  Dick.  "  You 
see  we're  all  disciples,"  he  added  to  May.  She 
smiled  slightly  and  turned  to  Jimmy  Benyon  who 
was  by  her,  as  though  to  speak  to  him  ;  but  More- 
wood's  voice  cut  across  her  remark. 

"  No,  I'm  not.     I'm  a  sceptic  there,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  well,  you  don't  know  anything  about  it," 
Dick  assured  him  placidly.  If  plain-speaking  were 
the  order  of  the  day,  the  Benyon  family  could  hold 
their  own. 

"  I  bet  he  hasn't  read  the  prospectus,"  said 
Jimmy. 

"  Couldn't  understand  it,  if  he  had,"  added  Dick, 
after  a  comforting  gulp  of  champagne. 

"  You're  really  splendid  people  to  be  in  with," 
said  May,  looking  gratefully  from  one  brother  to 
the  other.  They  were  so  staunch,  and  alas,  how 
had  they  been  treated  ! 

For  a  moment  Morewood  said  nothing;  he  sat 
smiling  maliciously. 

"  Shall  I  give  my  authority?"  he  asked.  "It 
won't  do  you  any  harm  if  I  do,  because  I  can't  call 
him  to  give  evidence." 

"  We  had  all  the  best  authorities,"  said  Dick  Ben- 
yon, "  as  you'd  know  if  you'd  read  the  pros- 
pectus." 

"  Hang  the  prospectus !  What's  the  good  of 
reading  a  man's  puff  of  his  own  wares?  But  I'm 
certain  you  hadn't  one  authority." 


THE  IRREVOCABLE.  287 

"  Well,  who's  your  authority  ?  "  asked  Jimmy,  with 
a  contempt  that  he  took  no  trouble  to  conceal. 

"  What  he  said  was  confidential,  you  know ' 

"  Oh,  you  won't  get  out  of  it  like  that.  We're  all 
friends  here.  Fire  away." 

Thus  exhorted,  and  indeed  nothing  loth — for  he 
had  not  read  the  prospectus  and  knew  not  the  full 
extent  of  what  he  did— Morewood  drew  his  mali- 
cious little  bow  and  shot  his  arrow,  sharper-pointed 
than  he  fancied.  "  I  suppose  you'll  admit,"  said  he 
with  the  exaggerated  carelessness  of  a  man  with  an 
unanswerable  case,  "  that  poor  old  Maturin  was 
some  authority,  and  he  told  me  in  confidence — I 
asked  him  about  it,  you  know,  just  to  be  able  to 
warn  you  fellows — that  there  was  an  absolutely 
fatal  defect  in  your  machine." 

To  score  too  great  a  triumph  is  sometimes  as  dis- 
concerting as  to  fail.  There  was  no  chorus  of  in- 
dignation, no  denial  of  Maturin's  authority,  no  good- 
natured  scoffing  such  as  Morewood  had  expected. 
He  looked  round  on  faces  fallen  into  a  sudden 
troubled  seriousness  ;  no  voice  was  raised  in  protest, 
gay  or  grave.  In  an  instant  he  knew  that  he  had 
done  something  far  beyond  what  his  humour  had 
suggested  ;  but  what  it  was  or  how  it  came  about, 
he  could  not  tell. 

The  Benyon  brothers  were  not  over-ready  of 
speech  in  a  difficulty ;  their  thoughts  were  busy 
now,  but  their  tongues  tied.  Marchmont  found 
nothing  to  say ;  he  could  not  help  raising  his  eyes 
under  half-drooped  lids  till  they  rested  on  May  Qui- 
sant6's  face.  There  was  a  moment  more  of  silence ; 


288  QUISANTE. 

then,  answering  the  tacit  summons  of  the  table, 
May  Quisante  spoke.  She  leant  forward  a  little, 
smiling,  and  spoke  clearly  and  composedly. 

"  Oh,  you  misunderstood  him,"  she  said.  "  He 
was  consulted,  but  fell  ill  before  he  could  go  into 
all  the  facts  or  write  his  report.  But  he  had  ex- 
pressed a  favourable  opinion  of  the  Alethea  to  my 
husband."  She  paused,  and  then  added,  "  If  you'd 
taken  the  trouble  to  read  the  prospectus  you'd  have 
known  that,  Mr.  Morewood." 

Little  Lady  Richard  laughed  nervously,  glanced 
round,  and  rose  from  the  table  ;  it  was  sooner  than 
the  ladies  were  wont  to  move  but,  as  she  said,  no- 
body seemed  to  be  eating  any  fruit,  and  so  there 
was  nothing  to  stay  for.  The  men  sat  down  again. 
Morewood  perceived  very  clearly  that  a  constraint 
had  come  upon  them ;  but  he  was  possessed  by 
curiosity. 

"Well,  I  should  like  to  see  the  prospectus  now," 
he  said. 

"  You'll  find  one  or  two  over  there,''  said  Dick, 
jerking  his  head  towards  a  writing-table,  but  not 
rising. 

Morewood  made  in  the  direction  indicated,  a  low 
mutter  from  Dick  following  him.  Then  Jimmy  ob- 
served : 

"  He  doesn't  understand  a  thing  about  it,  you 
know,  and  of  course  he  didn't  follow  what  Maturin 
said." 

The  others  nodded.  This  explanation  was  indeed 
the  simple  one ;  in  most  cases  it  would  have  been 
accepted  without  demur ;  or  recourse  would  have 


THE  IRREVOCABLE.  289 

been  had  to  the  hypothesis  of  a  sudden  change  in 
the  Professor's  opinion  ;  indeed  Marchmont  broached 
this  solution  in  an  off-hand  way.  Neither  view  was 
explicitly  rejected,  but  a  third  possibility  was  in  their 
minds,  one  which  would  not  and  could  not  have  been 
there,  had  any  one  of  the  three  had  the  settling  of 
the  prospectus  and  conducted  the  business  with  Ma- 
turin.  But  Alexander 'Quisante,  assisted  only  by 
cousin  Mandeville,  had  conducted  the  business  and 
drawn  the  prospectus. 

Morewood  came  back,  sat  down,  and  poured  out 
a  glass  of  wine. 

"  Yes,  I  see  what  it  says,"  he  observed.  His  mood 
of  malice  was  gone,  he  looked  troubled  and  rather 
remorseful.  "  Well,  I  only  repeated  what  Maturin 
said.  I'd  no  idea  there  was  anything  about  him  in 
the  prospectus.' 

The  two  reasonable  views  were  suggested  again 
by  Dick  and  Marchmont. 

"  It's  impossible  that  I  misunderstood  him,  but  of 
course  he  may  have  changed  his  mind."  He  paused, 
seeming  to  think.  "  I  gather  that  he  put  nothing 
in  writing?"  he  went  on.  "  He  only  talked  to  you 
about  it  ?  " 

After  a  little  pause  Jimmy  Benyon  said,  "  Not  ex- 
actly to  us — to  the  people  at  the  office,  you  know. 
And  there  was  nothing  in  writing  as  you  say — at 
least  so  I  understand  too." 

Morewood  passed  his  hand  through  his  hair ;  the 
ruffled  locks  intensified  the  ruefulness  of  his  aspect; 
he  had  before  his  eyes  the  picture  of  May  Quisante"s 
silence  and  her  so  careful,  so  deliberate  little  speech 


290  QUISANT£. 

after  it.  He  tossed  off  his  wine  almost  angrily,  as 
Dick  Benyon  rose,  saying,  "Let's  have  coffee  in  the 
garden.  It's  a  splendid  night."  He  added  with 
a  rather  uneasy  laugh,  "  Quisante's  coming  to- 
morrow!  we'll  leave  him  to  tackle  you  himself, 
Morewood." 

Lady  Richard  and  Fanny  Gaston  were  sitting  in 
the  garden  by  the  drawing-room  window  when  the 
men  joined  them  ;  Morewood  dropped  into  a  chair 
by  Lady  Richard  and,  looking  across  the  lawn,  saw 
May  strolling  by  herself  on  the  walk  that  bounded 
the  shrubberies.  He  took  his  coffee  in  silence  and 
then  lighted  his  pipe ;  the  vanity  of  cigarettes  was 
not  for  him.  At  last  he  said  confidentially, 

"  I've  a  sort  of  feeling  that  I've  made  an  ass  of 
myself." 

Lady  Richard  glanced  round ;  Fanny  had  gone 
across  to  the  other  group ;  nobody  was  in  hearing. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  be- 
lieve that  man's  been  up  to  some  trick  again.  You 
know  how  he  treated  us  over  the  Crusade?  Now 
I  suppose  he's  going  to  ruin  us  !  "  The  satisfaction 
of  a  justified  prophet  seemed  to  mingle  with  the 
dismay  of  a  wife  and  the  anger  of  a  sufferer  ;  Lady 
Richard  had  expected  nothing  less  all  along! 

"  I'm  afraid  I  rather — well,  that  Lady  May  didn't 
like  it." 

"  Poor  dear  May  must  know  what  to  expect  by 
now." 

"  Perhaps  she  never  knows  what  to  expect. 
That'd  be  worse."  The  remark  was  a  little  too 
subtle  for  Lady  Richard's  half-attentive  ear.  She 


THE  IRREVOCABLE.  291 

contented  herself  with  sighing  expressively.  More- 
v/ood  looked  across  the  lawn  again  ;  the  slow-walk- 
ing figure  had  disappeared,  presumably  into  the 
shrubberies.  Two  or  three  moments  later  he  saw 
Marchmont  strolling  off  in  that  direction,  cigar  in 
mouth  and  hands  in  pockets.  He  rose,  shook  him- 
self, and  cried  to  the  brothers,  "  Oh,  in  heaven's 
name,  come  and  play,  pool."  Jimmy  refused  and 
paired  off  with  his  fiancte,  but  Dick  agreed  to  bill, 
iards,  saying  as  they  went  in,  "  It'll  keep  you  from 
making  a  fool  of  yourself  any  more."  Morewood, 
finding  his  own  impression  of  his  conduct  thus  con- 
firmed, grunted  remorsefully  as  he  took  down  his 
cue. 

Marchmont  crossed  the  lawn  and  the  path,  and 
was  hidden  by  the  shrubberies.  Lady  Richard 
watched  till  she  could  see  him  no  more,  and  then 
went  indoors  with  another  sigh  ;  this  last  was  a  dis- 
claimer of  responsibility ;  if  Marchmont  liked  to 
comfort  May,  it  was  no  business  of  hers. 

He  loitered  on,  not  admitting  that  he  was  looking 
for  May,  but  very  sore  to  think  that  she  had  wan- 
dered away  to  a  sad  solitude  rather  than  be  with 
her  friends ;  since  she  did  that,  she  was  wounded 
indeed.  There  was  a  seat  round  an  old  tree-trunk 
at  the  farther  side  of  the  shrubbery ;  the  memory 
of  it  really  directed  his  apparently  aimless  steps, 
and  as  he  approached  it  he  threw  away  his  half- 
smoked  cigar  ;  he  thought  he  would  find  her  there  ; 
what  he  would  say  to  her  he  did  not  know. 

He  was  right.  There  she  sat,  very  still,  and  look- 
ing pale  under  the  moon.  Coming  up  to  her  he 


292  QUISANT£. 

said,  "  I  know  you  want  to  be  alone,  don't  you?" 
She  smiled  and  answered,  "  No,  stay.  I'm  glad  to 
have  you,"  and  he  sat  down  by  her.  She  was  silent, 
her  eyes  gazing  steadily  in  front  of  her ;  the  air  was 
sweet  and  very  still.  Now  he  needed  no  telling  that 
his  guess  at  the  situation  had  been  right,  that  she 
had  shielded  her  husband  at  her  own  cost ;  her  face 
told  him  what  the  cost  seemed  to  her.  A  great  in- 
dignation against  the  man  filled  him,  gaining  unac- 
knowledged reinforcement  from  the  love  he  himself 
had  for  the  woman.  He  had  wrought  for  himself  a 
masterpiece  of  pure  and  faultless  beauty ;  when  an- 
other took  it  from  him,  he  had  endured ;  now  the 
other  spoilt  and  stained  and  defiled  it ;  could  he  still 
endure?  It  seems  sometimes  as  though  the  deep 
silence  of  night  carries  thoughts  from  heart  to  heart 
that  would  be  lost  in  the  passage  through  the  broken 
tumultuous  sea  of  day.  The  thought  that  was  in 
him  he  felt  to  be  in  her  also,  changed  as  her  mind 
would  change  it,  yet  in  essence  the  same.  She  had 
now  no  ironical  smiles  for  him,  no  fencing,  and  no 
playing  with  her  fate ;  and  he  had  for  her  no  talk 
of  loyalty.  The  time  for  these  was  gone  in  the  light 
of  the  confidence  that  her  silence  gave  him  ;  it  told 
him  everything,  and  he  had  no  rebuke  for  its  open- 
ness. At  last  he  put  out  his  hand  and  lightly  pressed 
hers  for  a  moment.  She  turned  her  eyes  on  him. 

"It's  a  little  hard,  isn't  it?"  she  asked.  "I  can 
stand  most  things,  but  it's  hard  to  have  to  tell  lies 
to  your  friends."  Her  voice  rose  a  little  and  shook 
as  the  composure  which  she  had  so  long  kept  failed 
her.  "  And  they  know  I'm  lying.  Oh,  I  don't  de- 


THE  IRREVOCABLE.  293 

ceive  them,  however  hard  I  try.  They  don't  tell  me 
so,  but  they  know.  I  can't  help  it,  I  must  do  it.  I 
must  sit  and  do  it,  knowing  that  they  know  it's  a 
lie.  For  decency's  sake  I  must  do  it,  though.  Some 
people  believe,  the  Mildmays  believe  ;  but  you  here 
don't.  You  know  me  too  well,  and  you  know  him 
too  well." 

"  For  God's  sake,  don?t  talk  like  that,"  said  March- 
mont. 

"  Don't  talk  like  that !  The  talk's  not  the  harm. 
If  you  could  tell  me  how  not  to  live  like  that ! " 
Her  self-control  broke  utterly  ;  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  and  sobbed. 

"  For  God's  sake! "  he  murmured  again. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know.  This  is  only  the  crown  of 
it.  It  goes  on  every  day.  I'm  coming  not  to  know 
myself,  not  to  be  myself.  I  live  scheming  and  lying. 
I've  given  everything,  all  my  life.  Must  I  give  my- 
self, my  own  self,  too?  Must  I  lose  that  for  him?" 

Her  bitter  despairing  words  seemed  to  him  what 
at  that  moment  her  mood  made  them  seem  to  her- 
self, the  all-sufficient  all-embracing  summary  of  her 
life ;  she  had  then  no  thought  of  another  side  to  it, 
and  into  that  she  gave  him  no  insight.  He  counted 
as  dead  for  her  all  the  high  hopes  and  the  attractive 
imaginings  with  which  Quisante1  once  had  fired  her. 
Dead  for  her  they  were  at  that  moment ;  she  could 
see  nothing  but  her  husband's  baseness  and  a  base- 
ness bred  by  it  in  herself ;  her  bond  to  him  was  an 
obligation  to  dishonour  and  a  chain  of  treachery. 
She  abandoned  to  Marchmont's  eyes  all  the  hidden 
secrets  of  her  misery ;  in  this  she  seemed  also  to 


294  QUISANT£. 

display  before  him  the  dead  body  of  her  hopes,  her 
interest,  her  ambitions.  Giving  all,  she  had  gained 
nothing  ;  so  her  sobs  said.  But  only  for  moments 
does  life  seem  so  simple  that  a  sob  can  cover  all 
of  it. 

Presently  she  grew  calmer.  "  I've  never  broken 
out  like  this  before,"  she  said,  "  but  it's  rather  bad 
to  have  to  look  forward  to  a  life  of  it.  And  it'll 
get  worse,  not  better ;  or  if  it  doesn't  get  worse 
it'll  mean  that  I'm  getting  worse,  and  that'll  be 
worse  than  all."  She  smiled  forlornly.  "  What  a 
tangle  of  'worses '  I've  tied  it  up  in,  haven't  I  ?" 

She  did  not  seem  to  be  ashamed  of  her  breaking- 
out,  but  rather  to  be  relieved  by  it,  and  to  feel  that 
it  had  helped  to  establish  or  renew  an  intimacy  in 
which  she  found  some  pleasure  and  some  consola- 
tion ;  at  least  there  was  one  friend  now  who  knew 
exactly  how  she  stood  and  would  not  set  down  to 
that  own  self  of  hers  the  actions  that  he  might  see 
her  perform  in  Quisant£'s  service.  "You  once  told 
me  I  ought  to  take  a  confidante,"  she  reminded 
him.  "  I  don't  suppose  you  thought  I  should  take 
you,  though." 

She  had  had  her  outburst ;  his  was  still  to  come. 
Yet  it  seemed  rather  as  though  he  acted  on  a  delib- 
erate purpose  than  was  carried  away  by  any  irre- 
sistible impulse ;  he  spoke  simply  and  plainly. 

"  I  love  you  as  I've  always  loved  you,"  he  said. 

"  I  know,  and  I've  taken  advantage  of  it  to  in- 
flict all  this  on  you."  Her  eyes  rested  on  his  for 
some  moments,  and  she  answered  his  glance.  "  No, 
I  can't  escape  that  way.  I'm  not  talking  of  run- 


THE  IRREVOCABLE.  295 

ning  away;  of  course  I  couldn't  do  that."  She 
laughed  a  little  and  even  he  smiled.  "  But  I  can't 
escape  even  in — in  spirit  by  it.  Sometimes  I  wish 
I  could.  It  would  change  the  centre  of  my  life, 
wouldn't  it  ?  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  mind  the  things 
that  distress  me  so  much  now.  But  I  can't." 

"You  don't  love  me?  Well,  you  never  did." 
He  paused  an  instant  and  added  in  a  puzzled  way, 
"  Somehow." 

"Yes,  it's  all  'somehow.'  Somehow  I  didn't; 
I  ought  to  have.  Somehow  I've  got  where  I  am  • 
and  somehow,  I  suppose,  I  shall  endure  it."  She 
laid  her  hand  on  his.  "  I  should  actually  like  to 
love  you — in  a  way  I  do.  I'm  afraid  I've  very  lit- 
tle conscience  about  it.  But  somehow — yes,  some- 
how again — it's  all  a  hopeless  puzzle — I  can't 
altogether,  not  as  you  mean.  I  understand  it  very 
little  myself,  and  I  know  you  won't  understand  it 
at  all,  but — well,  Alexander  imprisons  me  ;  I  can't 
escape  from  him ;  as  long  as  he's  there  he  keeps 
me."  She  looked  in  Marchrnont's  face  and  then 
shook  her  head,  half-sadly,  half-playfully.  "You 
don't  understand  a  bit,  do  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  he  said  bluntly,  with  an  accent  of 
impatience  and  almost  of  exasperation.  Recognis- 
ing it,  she  gave  the  slightest  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 

"  It's  my  infatuation  again,  I  suppose,  as  you  all 
said  when  I  married  him.  It  makes  you  all  angry. 
Oh,  it  makes  me  angry  too,  as  far  as  that  goes." 

"  He's  ruining  your  whole  life." 

She  made  no  answer,  relapsing  into  the  still 
silence  which  had  preceded  her  tears.  Marchmont 


296  QUISANT£. 

was  baffled  again  by  his  old  inability  to  follow  the 
movements  of  her  mind  and  the  old  sense  of  blind- 
ness in  dealing  with  her  to  which  it  gave  rise. 
Owing  to  this  he  had  lost  her  at  the  first ;  now  it 
seemed  to  prevent  him  from  repairing  the  loss.  In 
spite  of  all  that  they  had  in  common,  in  spite  of  the 
strong  attraction  she  felt  towards  him  and  of  the  love 
he  bore  her,  there  was  always,  as  she  had  said  once,  at 
last  a  break  somewhere,  some  solution  in  the  chain 
of  sympathy  that  should  have  bound  them  together. 
But  he  would  not  admit  this,  and  chose  to  see  the 
only  barrier  between  them  in  the  man  who  was 
ruining  her  life. 

"  You'd  be  yourself  again  if  only  you  could  get 
away  from  him,"  he  murmured  resentfully. 

"  Perhaps ;  I  never  shall,  though."  She  added, 
laughing  a  little,  "Neither  will  you.  I've  made 
you  an  accomplice,  you're  bound  to  a  guilty  silence 
now."  Then,  growing  grave,  she  leant  towards 
him.  "  Don't  look  like  that,"  she  said,  "pray,  pray, 
pray  don't.  I  haven't  spoilt  your  life  as  well  as 
my  own?  No,  you  mustn't  tell  me  that."  Her  voice 
grew  very  tender  and  low.  "  But  I  can  say  almost 
all  you  want.  I  wish  I  had  loved  you,  I  wish  I 
had  married  you.  Oh,  how  I  wish  it !  I  should 
have  been  happy,  I  think,  and  I  know  I — I  shouldn't 
have  had  to  live  as  I  do  now  and  do  the  things  I 
have  to  do  now.  Well,  it's  too  late." 

"You're  very  young,"  he  said  in  a  voice  as  low 
as  hers.  "  It  mayn't  always  be  too  late." 

She  started  a  little,  drawing  away  from  him.  He 
had  brought  back  thoughts  which  the  stress  of 


THE  IRREVOCABLE.  297 

pain  and  excitement  had  banished  from  her 
mind. 

"  You  mean — ?  "  she  murmured.  "  I  know  what 
you  mean,  though."  Her  face  showed  again  a  sort 
of  puzzle.  "  I  can't  think  of  that  happening.  I 
tried  the  other  day — it  propos  of  something  else  ; 
but  I  couldn't.  I  couldn't  see  it,  you  know.  It 
doesn't  fit  my  ideas  about  him.  No,  that  won't 
happen.  We  must  just  go  on." 

The  wind  had  begun  to  rise,  the  trees  stirred, 
leaves  rustled,  the  whole  making,  or  seeming  to  her 
ears  to  make,  a  sad  whimsical  moaning.  She  rose, 
gathering  her  lace  scarf  closer  round  her  neck,  and 
saying,  "  Do  you  hear  the  wood  crying  for  us?  It's 
sorry  for  our  little  troubles."  She  stood  facing  him 
and  he  took  both  her  hands  in  his.  "  You  look  so 
unhappy,"  she  said  in  a  fresh  access  of  pity.  "  No  use, 
no  use  ;  it'll  all  go  on,  right  to  the  end  of  everything. 
So — good-bye." 

"  He's  coming  to-morrow,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he's  coming  to-morrow.  Good-bye."  She 
smiled  a  little,  feeling  Marchmont's  hands  drawing 
her  to  him.  "  Oh,  kiss  me  then,"  she  said,  turning 
her  cheek  to  him.  "  It'll  feel  friendly.  And  now 
we'll  go  in." 

They  had  just  started  to  return  when  they  heard 
steps  in  the  wood,  and  a  moment  later  her  name 
was  called  in  Dick  Benyon's  voice.  Marchmont 
shouted  in  answer,  "  Here  we  are,"  and  Dick  came 
along  the  path. 

"  I  couldn't  think  where  you'd  got  to,"  he  said. 

"  That's  because  you've  no  romance  in  you,"  said 


298  QUISANT£. 

May.  "  Or  you'd  have  known  we  should  be  wan- 
dering in  the  wood  in  the  moonlight.  Ah,  she's 
gone  under  a  cloud  now,  but  she  was  beautiful.  Are 
we  wanted,  though  ?  " 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place  I  think  you've  been  quite 
long  enough  for  propriety,  and  in  the  second  a 
man's  brought  a  wire  for  you,  and  he's  waiting  to 
see  if  there's  an  answer." 

"  Under  that  combination  of  moral  and  practical 
reasons  we'll  go  in,"  said  May,  laughing.  March- 
mont,  less  ready  in  putting  on  his  mask,  said  noth- 
ing but  followed  a  step  or  two  behind.  "  I  expect 
the  wire's  from  Alexander,"  she  went  on,  "  to  say 
he's  going  to  make  a  speech  somewhere  and  won't 
come  to-morrow." 

Dick  turned  to  her  with  a  quick  jerk  of  the  head  : 
a  moment  later  he  was  covered  with  confusion,  for 
her  bitter  little  smile  told  him  that  he  had  betrayed 
the  joy  which  such  a  notion  gave  him.  To  all  of 
them  it  would  be  a  great  relief  that  Quisante"  should 
not  come  while  the  memory  of  the  scene  that  More- 
wood  had  caused  at  dinner  was  still  so  fresh. 
Dick,  though  he  attempted  no  excuse,  felt  himself 
forgiven  when  May  took  his  arm  and  thus  walked 
back  to  the  house. 

"  Your  husband  had  a  slight  seizure  while  dining 
with  us  to-night.  He  is  comfortable  now,  and  there 
is  no  immediate  reason  for  anxiety.  But  doctor 
thinks  you  had  better  come  up  earliest  convenient 
train  to-morrow.  WINTERTON  MILDMAY." 

May  read  the  telegram,  standing  between  March- 
mont  and  Dick.  She  handed  it  to  Dick,  saying, 


THE  IRREVOCABLE.  299 

"  Read  it,  and  will  you  send  an  answer  that  I'll  come 
as  early  as  possible  in  the  morning ; "  then  she 
walked  to  the  table  and  sat  down  by  it.  Dick  gave 
Marchmont  the  slip  of  paper  and  went  off  to  de- 
spatch the  answer.  Nobody  else  was  in  the  room, 
except  Fanny  Gaston,  who  was  playing  softly  on 
the  piano  in  the  corner.  Marchmont  came  up  to 
May  and  put  the  telegram  down  on  the  table  by 
her. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  he  said  formally  and  constrain- 
edly. 

"  I  don't  suppose  it's  very  serious,*'  she  said. 
"  But  I  must  go,  of  course."  She  went  on  under 
the  cover  of  Fanny's  gentle  music.  "  It's  all  rather 
odd  though — its  coming  to-night  and  its  happening 
at  the  Mildmays*.  I  forgot,  though,  you  don't  know 
why  I  feel  that  so  odd.  How  Lady  Mildmay  '11 
nurse  him  !  I  expect  I  shall  have  a  struggle  to  get 
him  out  of  the  house  and  home  again." 

Marchmont  made  no  answer  but  stood  looking 
down  on  her  face.  She  met  his  glance  fairly,  and 
knew  what  it  was  that  had  forced  itself  into  his 
mind  and  now  found  expression  in  his  eyes.  She 
had  declared  to  him  that  her  fate  was  irrevocable, 
that  the  lines  of  her  life  were  set,  that  nothing  but 
death  could  alter  them,  and  that  death  had  no  part 
in  her  thoughts  about  her  husband.  The  telegram 
did  not  prove  her  wrong ;  yet  seizure  was  a  wague 
word  under  which  much  might  lie  hidden.  But  her 
mood  and  her  feeling  still  remained  ;  it  was  not  in 
hope  or  in  any  attempt  at  self-consolation,  but  in 
the  expression  of  an  obstinate  conviction  which 


300  QUISANT£. 

dominated  her  mind  that  she  said  in  answer  to 
Marchmont's  glance,  "  I  can't  believe  it's  anything 
really  amiss.  I  expect  I  shall  find  him  at  work 
again  when  I  get  back  to-morrow." 

With  a  little  movement  of  his  hands  Marchmont 
turned  away.  He  had  at  command  no  conventional 
phrases  in  which  to  express  a  desire  that  she  might 
prove  right.  It  was  impossible  to  say  that  he 
wished  she  might  prove  wrong;  even  in  his  own 
mind  a  man  leaves  a  hope  like  that  vague  and  un- 
formulated  But  he  marvelled,  still  without  under- 
standing, at  the  strange  obstinate  idea  which  seemed 
almost  to  exalt  Quisante1  above  the  ordinary  lot  of 
mortals,  to  see  in  him  a  force  so  living  that  it  could 
not  perish,  a  vitality  so  intense  that  death  could  lay 
no  hand  on  it.  He  glanced  at  her  as  he  crossed  the 
room  to  the  piano ;  she  sat  now  with  the  telegram 
in  her  hands  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor  in  front 
of  her.  It  needed  a  sharper  summons,  a  nearer 
reality,  to  rouse  her  from  the  conviction  that  her 
life  was  bound  for  ever  to  that  of  the  man  whom 
she  had  chosen  and  for  whom  she  had  given  so 
much.  It  would  all  go  on,  right  to  the  end  of  every- 
thing. The  telegram  had  not  shaken  that  faith  in 
her,  nor  altered  that  despair. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

DONE  FOR  ? 

A  KNOTTY  point  of  casuistry  was  engaging  the 
thoughts  of  the  Dean  of  St.  Neot's.  Morewood 
had  been  to  see  him,  had  told  without  disguise  the 
whole  story  of  his  blunder  at  the  dinner-table  at 
Ashwood,  had  referred  to  Alexander  Quisante's 
serious  illness,  and  had  finally,  without  apology  and 
without  periphrasis,  expressed  the  hope  that  Alex- 
ander Quisant£  would  die.  The  Dean's  rebuke  had 
produced  a  strenuous  effort  at  justification.  Quisant6 
was,  the  painter  pointed  out,  no  doubt  a  force,  but 
a  force  essentially  immoral  (Morewood  took  up 
morality  when  it  suited  his  purpose) ;  he  did  work, 
but  he  made  unhappiness  ;  he  affected  people's  lives, 
but  not  so  as  to  promote  their  well-being.  Or  if 
the  Dean  chose  to  champion  the  man,  Morewood 
was  ready  for  him  again.  If  Quisant£  were  good, 
were  moral,  were  deserving  of  defence,  then  the 
merely  natural  process  lugubriously  described  as 
death,  and  fantastically  treated  with  black  plumes 
and  crape,  would,  so  far  as  he  himself  was  con- 
cerned, be  no  more  than  a  transition  to  a  better 
state  of  existence,  while  certain  solid  and  indisput- 
able benefits  would  accrue  to  those  who  were  con- 
demned to  wait  a  little  longer  for  their  summons. 

301 


302  QUISANT£. 

Whether  the  Dean  elected  to  be  for  Quisante  or 
against  him,  Morewood  claimed  a  verdict. 

This  challenging  of  a  man's  general  notions  by  the 
putting  of  a  thorny  special  case  was  rather  resented 
by  the  Dean  ;  it  reminded  him  of  the  voluble  atheist 
in  Hyde  Park,  who  bases  his  attack  on  the  super- 
natural on  the  obsolete  enactments  of  the  Book  of 
Leviticus.  None  the  less  he  was  rather  puzzled  as 
to  what  he  had  a  right  to  wish  about  Alexander 
Quisant^,  and  so  he  had  recourse  to  his  usual  remedy 
— a  consultation  with  his  wife.  He  had  the  greatest 
faith  in  Mrs.  Baxter's  eye  for  morality;  perhaps 
generations  of  clerical  ancestry  had  bred  in  her  such 
an  instinct  as  we  see  in  sporting-dogs  ;  she  could  not 
go  wrong.  On  this  question  she  was  immediately 
satisfactory. 

"  We  are  forbidden,"  she  said,  removing  a  piece 
of  tape  from  her  mouth,  "  to  wish  anybody's  death ; 
you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do,  Dan."  She  made  a 
stitch  or  two.  "  We  must  leave  it  to  Providence," 
she  ended  serenely. 

At  first  sight  there  was  nothing  much  in  this 
dictum  ;  it  appeared  even  commonplace.  But  Mrs. 
Baxter  had  been  lunching  with  the  Mildmays,  had 
heard  a  full  account  of  what  the  doctors  said  about 
Quisant£,  and  had  expressed  her  conviction  that  he 
could  not  possibly  last  long.  So  far  as  could  be 
judged  then,  the  confidence  which  she  proposed  to 
show  ran  no  appreciable  risk  of  being  misplaced, 
while  at  the  same  time  she  avoided  commit- 
ting herself  by  any  expression  of  a  personal 
opinion. 


DONE  FOR?  303 

"  Doubtless,  my  dear,"  said  the  Dean  with  a  little 
cough. 

"  If  he  had  thought  less  about  himself  and  more 
about  other  people — "she  resumed. 

"  That  can't  have  anything  to  do  with  an  apoplec- 
tic seizure,"  the  Dean  pleaded. 

Mrs.  Baxter  looked  up  with  a  patient  smile. 

"  If  you  weren't  in  such  a  hurry,  Dan,  to  show 
what  you  call  your  enlightenment  (though  heaven 
knows  you  may  be  wrong  all  the  time,  and  a  judg- 
ment is  a  perfectly  possible  thing)  you'd  have  found 
out  that  I  was  only  going  to  say  that,  if  he'd 
thought  more  of  other  people,  he'd  find  other  people 
thinking  more  about  him  now." 

"  There  I  quite  agree  with  you,  my  dear." 

Mrs.  Baxter  looked  less  grateful  than  she  might 
have  for  this  endorsement  of  her  views;  self-confi- 
dence is  apt  to  hold  external  support  in  cheap  esteem. 

"When  the  first  Mrs.  Greening  died,"  she  re- 
marked, "  they  gave  the  maids  very  nice  black 
frocks,  with  a  narrow  edging  of  good  crape.  The 
very  first  Sunday-out  that  Elizabeth  had — the 
butcher's  daughter  near  the  Red  Cow — you  re- 
member?— she  stuck  a  red  ribbon  round  the  neck." 

The  Dean  looked  puzzled. 

"  Mrs.  Greening  was  the  most  selfish  woman  I've 
ever  known,"  explained  Mrs.  Baxter;  and  she  added 
with  a  pensive  smile,  "  And  I've  lived  in  a  Cathedral 
town  for  thirty  years." 

The  red-ribbon  became  intelligible  ;  it  fell  into 
line  with  Morewood's  ill-disciplined  wish.  Both 
signified  an  absence  of  love,  such  a  departing  with- 


304  QUISANT£. 

out  being  desired  as  serves  for  the  epitaph  of  a 
Jewish  king.  The  Dean  cast  round  for  somebody 
who  would  prove  such  an  inscription  false  o»i  Alex- 
ander Quisant6's  tomb. 

"Anyhow  it  would  break  the  old  aunt's  heart," 
he  said. 

"  It'd  save  her  money,"  observed  Mrs.  Baxter. 

"  And  his  wife  !  "  mused  the  Dean.  It  was  im- 
possible to  say  whether  there  were  a  question  in  his 
words  or  not.  But  his  first  instance  had  not  been 
Quisant6's  wife  ;  the  old  aunt  offered  a  surer  case. 

"  If  you  always  knew  what  a  man's  wife  thought 
about  him,  you'd  know  a  great  deal,"  said  Mrs. 
Baxter.  She  possessed  in  the  fullest  degree  her 
sex's  sense  of  an  ultimate  superiority  in  perception  ; 
men  knew  neither  what  their  wives  did  nor  what 
they  were  ;  wives  might  not  know  what  their  hus- 
bands did,  but  they  always  knew  what  they  were. 
It  would  be  rash  to  differ  from  a  person  of  her  ob- 
servation and  experience ;  half  a  dozen  examples 
would  at  once  have  confounded  the  objector. 

Mrs.  Baxter  took  perhaps  a  too  private  and  do- 
mestic view  of  the  man  whose  fate  she  was  discuss- 
ing ;  she  judged  the  husband  and  friend,  she  had 
nothing  to  say  to  the  public  character.  The  voices 
of  his  political  associates  and  acquaintances,  of  his 
fellow-workers  in  business,  of  his  followers  and  en- 
thusiastic adherents  in  his  constituency,  did  not 
reach  her  ears,  and  perhaps,  if  they  had,  would  not 
have  won  much  attention.  The  consternation  of 
Constantine  Blair,  Lady  Castlefort's  dismay,  the  sad 
gossiping  and  head-shaking  that  went  on  in  the 


DONE  FOR?  30$ 

streets  of  Henstead  and  round  old  Mr.  Foster's 
comfortable  board,  witnessed  to  a  side  of  Quisante" 
in  which  Mrs.  Baxter  did  not  take  much  interest. 
She  did  not  understand  the  sort  of  stupor  with 
which  they  who  had  lived  with  him  and  worked 
with  him  saw  the  force  he  wielded  and  the 
anticipations  he  filled  them  with  both  struck 
down  by  a  sudden  blow  ;  she  did  not  share  the  feel- 
ing that  all  at  once  a  gap  had  been  made  in 
life. 

But  something  of  this  sort  was  the  effect 
in  all  the  circles  which  Quisantd  had  invaded  and 
in  which  he  had  moved.  The  philosophical  might 
already  be  saying  that  there  was  no  necessary 
man  ;  to  the  generality  that  reflection  would  come 
only  later,  when  they  had  found  a  new  leader,  a 
fresh  inspiration,  and  another  personality  in  which 
to  see  the  embodiment  of  their  hopes.  Now  the 
loss  was  too  fresh  and  too  complete ;  for  although 
it  might  be  doubtful  how  long  Quisante"'s  life  would 
last,  there  seemed  no  chance  of  his  ever  filling  the 
place  to  which  he  had  appeared  to  be  destined. 
Only  a  miracle  could  give  that  back  to  one  who  must 
cling  to  life,  if  he  could  keep  his  hold  on  it  at  all, 
at  the  cost  of  abandoning  all  the  efforts  and  all  the 
activities  which  had  made  it  what  it  was  alike  for 
himself  and  for  others.  He  was  rallying  slowly  and 
painfully  from  his  blow  ;  a  repetition  of  it  would  be 
the  certain  penalty  of  any  strenuous  mental  exertion 
or  any  sustained  strain  of  labour.  In  inactivity,  in 
retirement,  in  the  placid  existence  of  a  recognised 

invalid  he  might  live  years,  indeed  probably  would; 
20 


306  QUISANT£. 

but  otherwise  the  authorities  declined  to  promise 
him  any  life  at  all.  His  body  had  played  him  false 
in  the  end.  Constantine  Blair  began  to  look  out  for 
a  candidate  for  Henstead  and  to  wonder  whether 
Sir  Winterton  would  again  expose  himself  to  the 
unpleasantness  of  a  contested  election  ;  Lady  Castle- 
fort  must  find  another  Prime  Minister,  the  fight- 
ing men  another  champion,  even  the  Alethea  Print- 
ing Press  Limited  a  new  chairman.  The  places 
he  had  filled  or  made  himself  heir  to  were  open  to 
other  occupants  and  fresh  pretenders.  That  the 
change  seemed  so  considerable  proved  how  great  a 
figure  he  had  become  in  men's  eyes  no  less  than 
how  utterly  his  career  was  overthrown.  The  com- 
ments on  his  public  life  were  very  flattering,  but 
already  they  praised  in  the  tone  of  an  obituary 
notice,  and  the  hopes  they  expressed  of  his  being 
able  some  day  to  return  to  the  arena  were  well  un- 
derstood to  be  no  more  than  a  kind  or  polite  refusal 
to  display  naked  truth  in  the  merciless  clearness  of 
print. 

Here  was  the  state  of  things  which  extorted  from 
Morewood  the  blunt  wish  that  Quisant6  might  die. 
Such  a  desire  was  hardly  cruel  to  the  man  himself, 
since  he  must  now  lose  all  that  he  had  loved  best  in 
the  market  of  the  world ;  but  it  was  not  the  man 
himself  who  had  been  most  in  Morewood's  thoughts. 
With  a  penetration  sharpened  by  the  memory  of 
his  blunder  he  had  appreciated  the  perverse  calam- 
ity which  had  fallen  on  the  man's  wife,  and  had 
passed  swiftly  to  the  conclusion  that  for  her  an  end 
by  death  was  the  only  chance,  the  only  turn  of 


DONE  FOR?  307 

events  which  could  give  back  to  her  the  chance  of 
a  real  life  to  be  lived.  He  knew  by  what  Quisante" 
had  attracted  and  held  her;  all  that,  it  seemed,  was 
gone  now.  He  divined  also  in  what  Quisant6  repelled 
and  almost  terrified  her ;  that  would  remain  so  long 
as  breath  was  in  the  man  and  might  grow  even 
more  intense.  A  sense  of  fairness  somehow  im- 
pelled him  to  his  wish  ;  her  bargain  had  turned  out 
so  badly  ;  the  underlying  basis  of  her  marriage  was 
broken  ;  she  was  left  to  pay  the  price  to  the  last 
penny,  but  was  to  get  nothing  of  what  she  had 
looked  to  purchase.  Was  it  not  then  the  part  of  a 
courageous  man  to  face  his  instinctive  wish,  and  to 
accept  it  boldly  ?  Cant  and  tradition  apart,  it  must 
be  the  wish  of  every  sensible  person.  For  she 
knew,  she  had  realised  most  completely  on  the  very 
evening  when  Quisant6  was  struck  down,  what  man- 
ner of  man  he  was.  She  might  have  endured  if  she 
had  still  been  able  to  tell  herself  of  the  wonderful 
things  that  he  would  do.  No  such  comfort  was 
open  now.  The  man  was  still  what  he  was  ;  but  he 
would  do  nothing.  There  came  the  change. 

"  That's  the  weak  point  about  marriage  as  com- 
pared with  other  contractual  arrangements,"  said 
Morewood  to  Dick  Benyon.  "  You  can  never  in 
any  bargain  ensure  people  getting  what  they  expect 
to  get — because  to  do  that  you'd  have  to  give  all  of 
them  sense — but  in  most  you  can  to  a  certain  extent 
see  that  they're  allowed  to  keep  what  they  actually 
did  get.  In  marriage  you  can't.  Something  of  this 
sort  happens  and  the  whole  understanding  on  which 
the  arrangement  was  based  breaks  down." 


308  QUISANTE. 

"Do  people  marry  on  understandings?''  asked 
Dick  doubtfully. 

"  The  only  way  of  getting  anything  like  justice 
for  her  is  that  he  should  die.  You  must  see  that  ?  '' 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  said  Dick 
morosely,  "  but  I  hear  there's  no  particular  likelihood 
of  his  dying  if  he  obeys  orders  and  keeps  quiet." 

"Just  so,  just  so,"  said  Morewood.  "That's 
exactly  what  I  mean.  Do  you  suppose  she'd  ever 
have  taken  him  if  he'd  been  going  to  keep  quiet  ? 
You  know  why  you  took  him  up  ;  well,  she  did  just 
the  same.  You  know  what  you  found  him  ;  she's 
found  him  just  the  same.  What's  left  now?  The 
rdle  of  a  loving  nurse  !  She's  not  born  a  nurse  ; 
and  how  in  the  devil's  name  is  she  to  be  expected  to 
love  him  ?  " 

Dick  Benyon  found  no  answer  to  questions  which 
put  with  a  brutal  truthfulness  the  salient  facts 
of  the  position.  The  one  thing  necessary,  the  one 
thing  which  would  have  made  the  calamity  bearable, 
perhaps  better  than  bearable,  was  wanting.  She 
might  love  or  have  loved  things  in  him,  or  about 
him,  or  done  by  him  ;  himself  she  did  not  love  ;  and 
now  nothing  but  himself  remained  to  her.  Seeing 
the  matter  in  this  light,  Dick  was  dumb  before 
Morewood's  challenge  to  him  to  say,  if  he  dared, 
that  he  hoped  a  long  life  for  Alexander  Quisant£. 
Yet  neither  would  he  wish  his  death  ;  for  Dick  had 
been  an  enthusiast,  the  spell  had  been  very  strong 
on  him,  and  there  still  hung  about  him  some- 
thing of  that  inability  to  think  of  Quisante'  as 
dead  or  dying,  something  of  the  idea  that  he 


DONE  FOR?  309 

must  live  and  must  by  very  strength  of  will  find 
strength  of  body,  which  had  prevented  May  her- 
self from  believing  that  the  news  which  came  in 
her  telegram  could  mean  anything  really  serious. 
While  Quisante"  lived,  there  would  always  be  to 
Dick  a  possibility  that  he  would  rise  up  from  his 
sickness  and  get  to  work  again.  Death  would  end 
this,  death  with  its  finality  and  its  utter  incongru- 
ous stillness.  Death  was  repose,  and  neither  for 
good  nor  for  evil  had  Quisant6  ever  embraced 
repose.  He  had  never  been  quiet ;  when  he  was 
not  achieving,  he  had  been  grimacing.  In  death  he 
could  do  neither. 

"  I  can't  fancy  the  fellow  dead,"  said  Dick  to  his 
wife  and  his  brother.  "  I  should  be  expecting  him 
to  jump  up  again  every  minute." 

Lady  Richard  shuddered.  The  actual  Quisant6 
had  been  bad  ;  the  idea  of  a  dead  Quisant£  horribly 
galvanized  into  movement  by  a  restlessness  that  the 
tomb  could  not  stifle  was  hideous.  Jimmy  came  to 
her  aid  with  a  rather  unfeeling  but  apparently 
serious  suggestion. 

"  We  must  cremate  him,"  he  said  gravely. 

"  No,  but,  barring  rot,"  Dick  pursued,  "  I  don't 
believe  he'll  die,  you  know." 

"  Poor  May  !  "  said  Lady  Richard.  Neither  of 
them  pressed  her  to  explain  the  precise  point  in 
May  Quisant£'s  position  which  produced  this  excla- 
mation of  pity.  It  might  have  been  that  the  death 
was  possible,  or  that  the  death  was  not  certain,  or 
at  least  not  near,  or  it  might  have  sprung  from  a 
purely  general  reflection  on  the  unhappiness  of 


QUISANT£. 

having  life  coupled  with  the  life  of  such  a  man  as 
Quisant6. 

All  these  voices  of  a  much  interested,  much  pity- 
ing, much  (and  on  the  whole  not  unenjoyably)  dis- 
cussing world  were  heard  only  in  dim  echoes  in  the 
Mildmays'  big  quiet  house  in  Carlton-House  Ter- 
race, where  Quisant6  had  been  stricken  by  his 
blow.  There  May  had  found  him  on  her  hasty  re- 
turn from  Ashwood,  and  here  he  was  still,  thanks  to 
the  host's  and  hostess's  urgent  entreaties.  They 
declared  that  he  was  not  fit  to  be  moved  ;  the  doc- 
tors hardly  endorsed  this  view  heartily  but  went  so 
far  as  to  say  that  any  disturbance  was  no  doubt  bad 
in  its  degree  ;  Lady  Mildmay  seized  eagerly  on  the 
grudging  support.  "  Let  him  stay  here  till  he's  fit 
to  go  to  the  country,"  she  urged.  "  I'm  sure  we 
can  make  him  comfortable.  And—  she  smiled 
apologetically,  "  I'm  a  good  nurse,  if  I'm  nothing 
else,  you  know." 

"  But  won't  Sir  Winterton ?  " 

"  My  dear,  you  don't  know  what  a  lot  Winterton 
thinks  of  Mr.  Quisante1  ;  he's  proud  to  be  of  the 
least  service  to  him.  And  you  do  know,  I  think, 
how  it  delights  him  to  be  any  use  at  all  to  you." 

In  spite  of  that  reason  buried  in  her  own  heart 
which  made  every  kindness  received  from  these 
kind  hands  bitter  to  her,  May  let  him  stay.  He 
wanted  to  stay,  she  thought,  so  far  as  his  relaxed 
face  and  dimmed  eyes  gave  evidence  of  any  desire. 
And  besides — yes,  Lady  Mildmay  was  a  good 
nurse ;  he  might  find  none  so  good  if  he  were 
moved  away.  No  sense  of  duty,  no  punctilious  per- 


DONE  FOR?  311 

formance  of  offices,  no  such  constancy  of  attendance 
as  a  wife  is  bound  to  render,  could  give  what  Lady 
Mildmay  gave.  Yet  more  than  these  May  could  not 
achieve.  It  was  rather  cruel,  as  it  seemed  to  her, 
that  the  great  and  sudden  call  on  her  sympathy 
should  come  at  the  moment  of  all  others  when  the 
spring  of  her  sympathy  was  choked,  when  anger 
still  burnt  in  her  heart,  when  passionate  resentment 
for  a  wound  to  her  own  pride  and  her  own  honour 
still  inflamed  her,  when  the  mood  in  which  she  had 
broken  out  in  her  talk  with  Marchmont  was  still 
predominant.  Such  a  falling-out  of  events  some- 
times made  this  real  and  heavy  sickness  seem  like 
one  of  Quisante's  tricks,  or  at  least  suggested  that 
he  might  be  making  the  most  of  it  in  his  old  way, 
as  he  had  of  his  faintness  at  the  Imperial  League 
banquet,  or  of  his  headache  when  old  Foster's  letter 
followed  on  the  declaration  of  the  poll  at  Henstead. 
Such  feelings  as  these,  strong  enough  to  chill  her 
pity  till  Lady  Mildmay  wondered  at  a  wife  so  cold, 
were  not  deep  or  sincere  enough  to  blind  May  Qui- 
sant6's  eyes.  Even  without  the  doctor's  story — 
which  she  had  insisted  on  being  told  in  all  its  plain- 
ness— she  thought  that  she  would  have  known  the 
meaning  of  what  had  befallen  her  husband  and  her- 
self, and  have  grasped  at  once  its  two  great  features, 
the  great  certainty  and  the  great  uncertainty  ;  the 
certainty  that  his  career  was  at  an  end,  the  uncer- 
tainty as  to  how  near  his  life  was  to  its  end.  Such 
a  position  chimed  in  too  well  with  the  bitter  mood 
of  Ashwood  not  to  seem  sent  to  crown  it  by  a  ma- 
licious device  of  fate's.  At  the  very  moment  when 


312  QUISANTE. 

she  least  could  love,  she  was  left  no  resource  but 
love ;  at  the  moment  when  she  would  have  turned 
her  eyes  most  away  from  him  and  most  towards 
his  deeds,  the  deeds  were  taken  away  and  he  only 
was  left ;  at  the  time  when  her  hot  anger  against 
him  drove  her  into  a  cry  for  release,  she  received 
no  promise  of  release,  or  a  promise  deferred  beyond 
an  indefinitely  stretching  period  of  a  worse  impris- 
onment. For  she  clung  to  no  such  hope  as  that 
which  made  Dick  Benyon  dream  of  a  resurrection 
of  activity  and  of  power,  and  had  nothing  to  look 
for  save  years  of  a  life  both  to  herself  and  to  him 
miserable.  It  might  be  sin  to  wish  him  dead  ;  but 
was  it  sin  to  wish  him  either  alive  or  dead,  either  in 
vigour  or  at  rest  ?  Sin  or  no  sin,  that  was  the  desire 
in  her  heart,  and  it  would  not  be  stifled  however 
much  she  accused  its  inhumanity  or  recognised  the 
want  of  love  in  it.  Was  the  fault  all  hers  ?  With 
her  lips  still  burning  from  the  lie  that  she  had  told 
for  him,  she  could  not  answer  '  yes.' 

Still  and  silent  Quisant6  lay  on  his  bed.  His  head 
was  quite  clear  now  and  his  eyes  grew  brighter.  He 
watched  Lady  Mildmay  as  she  ministered  to  him, 
and  he  watched  his  wife  with  his  old  quick  furtive 
glances,  so  keen  to  mark  every  shade  of  her  manner 
towards  him.  She  had  never  really  deceived  him 
as  to  her  thoughts  of  him  ;  she  did  not  deceive  him 
now.  He  knew  that  her  sympathies  were  estranged, 
more  estranged  than  they  had  ever  been  before. 
So  far  as  the  reason  lay  in  the  incident  of  Ashwood, 
it  was  hidden  from  him  ;  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
last  great  shame  that  he  had  put  on  her.  But  long 


DONE  FOR?  313 

before  this  he  had  recognised  where  his  power  over 
her  lay,  by  what  means  he  had  gained  and  by  what 
he  kept  it ;  he  had  been  well  aware  that  if  she  were 
still  to  be  under  his  sway,  the  conquest  must  be  held 
by  his  achievements  ;  he  himself  was  as  nothing  be- 
side them.  Now,  as  he  lay,  he  was  thinking  what 
would  happen.  He  also  had  heard  the  doctor's  story 
or  enough  of  it  to  enable  him  to  guess  the  purport 
of  their  sentence  on  him ;  he  was  to  live  as  an  in- 
valid, to  abandon  all  his  ambitions,  to  throw  away 
all  that  made  people  admire  him  or  made  him  some- 
thing in  the  world's  eyes  and  something  great  in 
hers.  On  these  terms  and  on  these  only  life  was 
offered  to  him  now;  if  he  refused,  if  he  defied 
nature,  then  he  must  go  on  with  the  sword  ever 
hanging  over  him,  in  the  knowledge  that  it  soon 
must  fall.  He  told  himself  that,  yet  was  but  half- 
convinced.  Need  it  fall  ?  With  the  first  spurt  of 
renewed  strength  he  raised  that  question  and  argued 
it,  till  he  seemed  able  to  say  '  It  may  fall/  rather 
than  '  It  must.' 

What  should  be  his  course  then  ?  The  world 
thought  it  had  done  with  him.  All  seemed  gone 
for  which  his  wife  had  prized  him.  Should  he 
accept  that,  and  in  its  acceptance  take  up  his 
life  as  valetudinarian,  his  life  forgotten  of  the 
world  which  he  had  loved  to  conquer,  barren  of 
interest  for  the  woman  whom  it  had  been  his 
strongest  passion  to  win  against  her  instincts,  to  hold 
as  it  were  against  her  will,  and  to  fascinate  in  face  of 
her  distaste  ?  Such  were  the  terms  offered ;  Alex- 
ander Quisant£  lay  long  hours  open-eyed  and  thought 


QUISANT£. 

of  them.  There  had  come  into  his  head  an  idea 
that  attracted  him  mightily  and  suited  well  with  his 
nature,  so  oddly  mixed  of  strength  and  weakness, 
greatness  and  smallness,  courage  and  bravado,  the 
idea  of  a  means  by  which  he  might  keep  the  world's 
applause  and  his  wife's  fascinated  interest,  aye,  and 
increase  them  too,  till  they  should  be  more  intense 
than  they  had  ever  been.  That  would  be  a  triumph, 
played  before  admiring  eyes.  But  what  would  be 
the  price  of  it,  and  was  the  price  one  that  he  would 
pay.  It  might  be  the  biggest  price  a  mortal  man 
can  pay.  So  for  a  few  days  more  Alexander  Qui- 
sant6  lay  and  thought  about  it. 

Once  old  Miss  Quisant6  came  to  see  him,  at 
his  summons,  not  of  her  own  volunteering.  Since 
the  blow  fell  she  had  neither  come  nor  written,  and 
May,  with  a  sense  of  relief,  had  caught  at  the  excuse 
for  doing  no  more  than  sending  now  and  again  a 
sick-room  report.  Aunt  Maria  looked  old,  frail,  and 
very  yellow,  as  she  made  her  way  to  a  chair  by  her 
nephew's  bed.  He  turned  to  her  with  the  smile  of 
mockery  so  familiar  to  her  eyes. 

"You  haven't  been  in  any  hurry  to  see  me,  Aunt 
Maria,"  said  he. 

"  You've  always  sent  for  me  when  you  wanted  me 
before,  Sandro,  and  I  supposed  you  would  this  time." 

"May's  kept  you  posted  up?  You  know  what 
those  fools  of  doctors  say  ? "  The  old  woman 
nodded.  Quisant£  was  smiling  still.  "  I'm  done 
then,  eh?"  he  asked. 

Her  hands  were  trembling,  but  her  voice  was  hard 
and  unsympathetic.  "It  sounds  like  it,"  she  said. 


DONE  FOR?  315 

Quisante  raised  himself  on  his  elbow. 

"  You'll  see  me  out  after  all,"  said  he,  "  if  I'm 
not  careful.  That's  what  it  comes  to."  He  gave 
a  low  laugh  as  Aunt  Maria's  lips  moved  but  no 
words  came.  He  leant  over  a  little  nearer  to  her 
and  asked,  "  Have  you  had  any  talk  with  my  wife 
about  it?" 

"  No,"  said  Aunt  Maria.    "  Not  a  word,  Sandro." 

"  Nothing  to  be  said,  eh  ?  What  does  she  think, 
though?  Oh,  you  know!  You've  got  your  wits 
about  you.  Don't  take  to  considering  my  feelings 
at  this  time  of  day." 

Now  the  old  woman  smiled  too. 

"  I'm  sorry  you're  done  for,  Sandro,"  she  said. 
"  So's  your  wife,  I'll  be  bound." 

"You  both  love  me  so  much?"  he  sneered. 

"  We've  always  understood  one  another,"  said 
Aunt  Maria. 

"  I  tell  you,  I  love  my  wife."  Aunt  Maria  made 
no  remark.  "And  you  both  think  I'm  done  for? 
Well,  we'll  see  !  "  4 

Aunt  Maria  looked  up  with  a  gleam  of  new  inter- 
est in  her  sharp  eyes,  so  like  the  eyes  of  the  man  on 
the  bed.  Quisant£  met  her  glance  and  understood  it ; 
it  appealed  at  once  to  his  malice  and  to  his  vanity ; 
it  was  a  foretaste  of  the  wonder  he  would  raise  and 
the  applause  he  would  win,  if  he  determined  to  face 
the  price  that  might  have  to  be  paid  for  them.  He 
had  listened  with  exasperated  impatience  to  kind 
Lady  Mildmay's  pleadings  with  him,  to  her  motherly 
insisting  on  perfect  rest  for  his  mind,  and  to  her 
pathetically  hopeful  picture  of  the  new  interests  and 


316  QUISANT£. 

the  new  pleasure  he  would  find  in  days  of  rest  and 
peace,  with  his  wife  tenderly  looking  after  him.  To 
such  charming  as  that  his  ears  were  deaf ;  they 
pricked  at  the  faintest  sound  of  distant  cheering. 
It  would  be  something  to  show  even  Aunt  Maria 
that  he  was  not  done  with ;  what  would  it  not  be  to 
show  it  to  the  world — and  to  that  wife  of  his  whom 
he  loved  and  could  hold  only  by  his  deeds? 

"  I  only  know  what  the  doctors  say,"  remarked 
Miss  Quisant£.  "  They  say  you  must  throw  up 
everything." 

"  You  wouldn't  have  me  risk  another  of  those 
damned  strokes,  would  you  ?  "  he  asked,  the  mockery 
most  evident  now  in  his  voice  and  look.  "  Lady 
Mildmay  implores  me  to  be  careful,  almost  with  tears. 
I  suppose  my  own  aunt  '11  be  still  more  anxious,  and 
my  own  wife  too  ?  " 

"  Doctors  aren't  infallible.  And  they  don't  know 
you,  Sandro.  You're  not  like  other  men."  Hard 
as  the  tone  was,  his  ears  drank  in  the  words  eagerly. 
"  They  don't  know  how  much  there  is  in  you." 

Again  he  leant  forward  and  said  almost  in  a 
whisper, 

"  May  thinks  I'm  done  for?"  Aunt  Maria  nodded. 
"And  she'll  nurse  me?  Take  me  to  some  infernal 
invalids'  place,  full  of  bath-chairs,  and  walk  beside 
mine,  eh?"  Aunt  Maria  smiled  grimly.  "She'll 
like  that,  won't  she  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  won't  die,"  she  said  suddenly  and  abruptly, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  his. 

"  What  ?  "  he  asked  sharply.  "  Well,  who  said  I 
was  going  to  die  ?  " 


DONE  FOR?  317 

"The  doctors — unless  you  go  to  the  invalids' 
place." 

"  Oh,  and  my  dear  aunt  doesn't  agree  with 
them?"  Eagerness  now  broke  through  the  mock- 
ery in  his  tones.  He  had  longed  so  for  a  word 
of  hope,  for  someone  to  persuade  him  that  he 
might  still  live  and  could  still  work.  "  But  suppose 
they  proved  right  ?  Well,  that's  no  worse  than  the 
other  anyhow." 

"Not  much,"  said  Aunt  Maria.  "But  I  don't 
believe  'em."  Her  faith  in  him  came  back  at  his 
first  summons  of  it.  He  had  but  to  tell  her  that 
he  would  live  and  need  not  die,  and  she  would 
believe  him.  Sandro's  ways  were  not  as  other 
men's ;  she  could  not  believe  that  for  Sandro  as  for 
other  men  there  were  necessities  not  to  be  avoided, 
and  a  fate  not  to  be  mastered  by  any  defiant  human 
will.  So  there  she  sat,  persuading  him  that  he  was 
not  mortal ;  and  he  lay  listening,  mocking,  embit- 
tered, yet  still  lending  an  ear  to  the  story,  eager  to 
believe  her  fable,  rejoicing  in  the  power  that  he  had 
over  her  mind.  If  he  felt  all  this  for  Aunt  Maria, 
what  would  he  not  feel  for  the  world,  and  for  that 
wife  of  his?  If  old  Aunt  Maria  could  so  wake  in 
him  the  love  of  life  and  the  hatred  of  that  living 
death  to  which  he  had  been  condemned,  what 
passionate  will  to  live  would  rise  in  answer  to  the 
world's  wonder  and  his  wife's  ? 

"  I  wish  you'd  give  me  that  little  book  on  the 
table  there,"  he  said.  Aunt  Maria  obeyed.  "  My 
engagement-book,"  he  explained.  "  Look.  I  had 
things  booked  for  five  months  ahead.  See — 


318  QUISANT£. 

speeches,  meetings,  committees,  the  Alethea — so 
on — so  on.  They're  all  what  they  call  cancelled 
now."  He  turned  the  leaves  and  Aunt  Maria  stood 
by  him,  watching. 

"  They  won't  get  anybody  to  do  'em  like  you, 
Sandro,"  she  said. 

He  flung  the  book  down  on  the  floor  in  sudden 
peevishness,  with  an  oath  of  anger  and  exasperation. 

"  By  God,  why  haven't  I  a  fair  chance  ? "  he 
asked,  and  fell  back  on  his  pillows. 

Lady  Mildmay  would  have  come  and  whispered 
softly  to  him,  patted  his  hand,  given  him  lemonade, 
and  bade  him  try  to  sleep  while  she  read  softly  to 
him.  His  old  Aunt  Maria  Quisant£  stood  motion- 
less, saying  not  a  word,  looking  away  from  him. 
Yet  she  was  nearer  to  his  mood  and  suited  him 
better  than  kind  Lady  Mildmay. 

"You've  done  a  good  bit  already,  Sandro,"  she 
said.  "  And  you're  only  thirty-nine." 

"And  I'm  to  die  at  thirty-nine,  or  else  live  like  an 
idiot,  bored  to  death,  and  boring  to  death  everybody 
about  me  ! " 

"  I  shall  go  now,"  said  Aunt  Maria.  "  Good-bye, 
Sandro.  Send  for  me  again  when  you  want  me." 

"  Aunt  Maria !  "  She  stopped  at  his  call.  "  Go 
and  see  May.  Go  and  talk  to  her." 

"Yes,  Sandro." 

"  Tell  her  what  you  think.  You  know :  I  mean, 
tell  her  that  perhaps  it's  not  as  bad  as  the  doctors 
say ;  that  I  may  get  about  a  bit  soon  and — and  so 
on — You  know." 

"  I'm  to  tell  her  that  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Maria. 


DONE  FOR?  319 

"She's  not  to  conclude  it's  all  over  with  me  yet." 
Miss  Quisante  nodded  and  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  Oh,  and  before  you  go,  just  pick  up  that  book 
and  give  it  me  again,  will  you  ?  " 

She  returned,  picked  up  the  engagement-book  and 
gave  it  him  ;  then  she  stood  for  a  moment  by  the 
bed,  beginning  to  smile  a  little. 

"  You've  got  a  lot  to  fret  about,"  she  said.  "  Don't 
you  fret  about  money,  Sandro.  I  can  manage  a 
thousand  in  a  month  or  so.  No  use  hoarding  it ; 
it  looks  as  if  we  should  neither  of  us  want  it  long." 

"You've  got  a  thousand?  What,  now?  Avail- 
able?" 

"  In  a  week  or  so  it  could  be." 

"  Then  in  God's  name  put  it  in  the  Alethea. 
What  are  you  thinking  about?  It's  the  biggest 
thing  out." 

"  In  the  Alethea  ?     I  meant  to  give  it  to  you." 

"  All  right.  I  shall  put  it  in,  if  you  do.  I  tell 
you  that  in  three  years'  time  you'll  be  rich  out  of  it, 
and  I  shall  draw  an  income  of  a  couple  of  thousand  a 
year  at  least  as  long  as  the  patent  lasts,  if  not  longer." 

"  How  long  does  it  last  ?  " 

"  Fourteen  years ;  then  we'll  try  for  an  extension, 
for  another  seven,  you  know,  and  we  ought  to  get 
it.  First  and  last  I  expect  to  get  fifty  thousand 
out  of  the  Alethea  alone,  besides  another  thing  that 
I've  talked  over  with  Mandeville.  I'll  tell  you  about 
it  some  day,  I  can't  to-day.  I — I'm  a  little  tired. 
But  anyhow  the  Alethea's  sure.  I'll  put  the  thou- 
sand into  it  for  you,  and  I'll  hand  you  back  double 
the  money  this  time  next  year." 


320  QUISANT£. 

He  was  leaning  on  his  left  elbow,  talking  volubly  ; 
his  eyes  were  bright,  his  right  hand  moved  in  rapid 
apt  gestures ;  his  voice  was  sanguine  as  he  spoke  of 
the  seven  years'  extension  of  the  Alethea  patent ; 
he  had  forgotten  his  stroke  and  the  verdict  of  his 
doctors.  Aunt  Maria  nodded  her  head  to  him,  say- 
ing, "  I'll  send  it  you  as  soon  as  I  can,"  and  made 
for  the  door.  She  was  smiling  now  ;  Sandro  seemed 
more  himself  again.  He,  left  alone,  lay  back  on  his 
pillow,  breathing  fast,  rather  exhausted  ;  but  after 
awhile  he  opened  the  engagement-book  again  and 
ran  his  eyes  up  and  down  its  columns.  Lady  Mild- 
may  found  him  thus  occupied  when  she  came  to 
give  him  a  cup  of  milk. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

FOR  LACK  OF   LOVE? 

WESTON  MA.RCHMONT,  punctilious  to  the  verge 
of  fastidiousness,  or  even  over  it,  in  his  conduct  to- 
wards the  world  and  his  friends,  allowed  himself 
easily  enough  a  liberty  of  speculative  opinion  which 
the  Dean  of  St.  Neot's  would  have  hesitated  about 
and  the  Dean's  wife  decently  veiled  by  a  reference 
to  Providence.  To  him  the  blow  that  had  fallen  on 
Quisant6  seemed  no  public  evil.  Allowing  the  man's 
talents,  he  distrusted  both  his  aims  and  his  methods; 
they  would  not  have  come  to  good  ;  the  removal  of 
his  personality  meant  relief  from  an  influence  which 
was  not  healthy  and  an  example  which  taught  noth- 
ing beyond  the  satisfaction  of  ambition  and  the 
pursuit  of  power.  It  was  well  then  if  Quisant£  were 
indeed,  as  he  himself  said,  "  done  with,"  so  far  as 
public  activity  went.  Marchmont,  not  concealing 
his  particular  interest  but  rather  facing  it  and  de- 
claring it  just,  went  on  to  say  that,  since  Quisante 
was  done  with  publicly,  it  was  well  that  he  should 
be  done  with  privately  also,  and  that  as  speedily  as 
might  be.  Love  for  May  Quisantd  might  be  the 
moving  spring  of  this  conclusion,  but  he  insisted 
that  it  was  not  necessary  thereto.  Any  reasonable 
person  her  friend,  nay,  anybody  whose  attention 
21  321 


QUISANT£. 

was  fairly  directed  to  the  case,  must  hold  the  same 
view.  There  was  a  hideous  mistake  to  be  undone, 
and  only  one  way  of  undoing  it.  Permanent  unions 
in  marriage,  immense  and  indispensable  engines  of 
civilisation,  yet  exacted  their  price.  One  instance  of 
the  compensating  payment  was  that  deaths  some- 
times became  desirable  ;  you  had  to  wish  a  death 
sooner  than  life-long  misery  for  a  friend  ;  to  wish  it 
was  not  wrong,  though  to  have  to  wish  it  might 
be  distasteful.  In  this  self-justification  he  con- 
trived to  subordinate,  while  he  admitted,  his  own 
strong  interest  in  the  death  and  his  violent  dislike  of 
the  sufferer  which  robbed  the  death  of  its  pain  so 
far  as  he  was  concerned.  People's  infatuation 
with  Quisant6,  above  all  May's  infatuation,  had  so 
irritated  him  that  he  did  not  scruple  to  accept  the 
only  means  of  ending  them ;  that  they  would  be 
thus  ended  it  never  came  into  his  mind  to  doubt. 
His  regret  was  only  for  the  stretch  of  delay,  for  the 
time  of  waiting,  for  the  respite  promised  to  the 
doomed  man  if  he  would  be  docile  and  obedient ; 
for  all  of  them  life  was  passing,  and  too  much  had 
already  in  tragic  mistake  been  spent  on  Alexander 
Quisant6. 

"  I  think  you're  damnably  inhuman,"  said  Dick 
Benyon,  expressing,  as  he  often  did,  an  unsophisti- 
cated but  not  perhaps  an  altogether  unsound  pop- 
ular judgment.  "  He's  a  remarkable  man.  And  after 
all  she  married  him.  She  needn't  have.  As  for  the 
party — well,  I  don't  know  how  we  shall  replace 
him." 

"  I  don't  want  him  replaced,"  said  Marchmont. 


FOR  LACK  OF  LOVE?  323 

"  Everything  that  he  was  doing  had  better  be  left 
undone ;  and  everything  that  he  is  had  better  not 
be.  You  call  me  inhuman.  Well,  people  who  re- 
press their  pity  for  individuals  in  the  interests  of 
the  general  welfare  are  always  called  that." 

"  Yes,  but  you  don't  pity  him,"  retorted  Dick. 

Marchmont  thought  for  a  moment.  "  No,  I 
don't,"  he  admitted.  "  I  see  why  one  might ;  but  I 
can't  do  it  myself."  He  paused  and  added,  smiling, 
"  I  suppose  that's  the  weak  point  in  my  attitude." 

"  One  of  them,"  said  Dick,  but  he  said  no  more. 
There  are  limits  to  candid  discussion  even  among 
the  closest  friends  ;  he  could  not  tell  Marchmont  in 
so  many  words  that  he  wanted  Quisante"  dead  so  as 
to  be  able  to  marry  Quisante"s  wife,  however  well, 
aware  of  the  fact  he  might  be  and  Marchmont 
might  suspect  him  to  be.  Or,  if  he  had  said  this,  he 
could  have  said  it  only  in  vigorous  reproof,  perhaps 
even  in  horror  ;  and  to  this  he  was  not  equal.  For 
Dick  was  sorely  torn.  On  the  one  hand  he  had 
never  ceased  to  hang  on  Quisant£'s  words  and  to 
count  on  Quisante's  deeds ;  on  the  other,  he  had 
never  acquitted  himself  of  responsibility  for  a  mar- 
riage which  he  believed  to  have  been  most  dis- 
astrous. Worst  of  all  then  for  him  was  what  threat- 
ened now,  an  end  of  the  illuminating  words  and  the 
stirring  deeds,  but  no  end  to  the  marriage  yet  in 
sight.  To  him  too  death  seemed  the  best  thing, 
unless  that  wonderful  unlikely  resurrection  of  activ- 
ity and  power  could  come.  And  even  then — Dick 
remembered  the  face  of  Quisante's  wife  as  she  lied 
for  him  to  her  friends  at  Ashwood.  The  resur- 


324  QUISANTE. 

rection  must  be  not  only  with  a  renewed  but  with  a 
transformed  mind,  if  it  were  to  bring  happiness,  and 
to  bring  no  more  of  things  like  that. 

The  world  at  large,  conceiving  that  the  last  word 
had  been  said  and  the  last  scene  in  which  it  was  in- 
terested played,  had  soon  turned  its  curious  eyes 
away  from  Quisant6's  sick  bed,  leaving  only  the 
gaze  of  the  smaller  circle  personally  concerned  in 
the  dull  and  long-drawn-out  ending  of  a  piece  once 
so  full  of  dramatic  incident.  But  the  world  found 
itself  wrong,  and  all  the  eyes  spun  round  in  amazed 
staring  when  the  sick  man  leapt  from  his  bed  and 
declared  that  he  was  himself  again.  The  news  came 
in  paragraphs,  to  the  effect  that  after  another  week's 
rest  Mr.  Quisante",  whose  health  had  made  a  rapid 
and  great  improvement,  hoped  to  return  to  his  Par- 
liamentary duties  and  to  fulfil  the  more  urgent  of  his 
public  engagements.  Here  was  matter  enough  for 
surprise,  but  it  was  needful  to  add  the  fast-follow- 
ing well-authenticated  stories  of  how  the  doctors 
had  protested,  how  Sir  Rufus  Beaming  had  washed 
his  hands  of  the  case,  and  how  Dr.  Claud  Manton 
had  addressed  an  energetic  warning  to  Lady  May 
Quisante\  This  last  item  came  home  most  closely 
to  the  general  feeling,  and  the  general  voice  asked 
what  Lady  May  was  thinking  of.  There  was  warrant 
for  the  question  in  the  wondering  despair  of  Lady 
Mildmay  and  the  sad  embarrassment  of  debonair 
Sir  Winterton.  The  Mildmays  knew  all  about  it, 
the  whole  thing  had  happened  in  their  house ;  but 
Sir  Winterton,  challenged  with  the  story  about  Sir 
Rufus,  could  only  hum  and  ha,  and  Lady  Mildmay 


FOR  LACK  OF  LOVE?  325 

had  not  denied  the  interview  between  Quisantd's 
wife  and  the  energetic  Dr.  Manton.  What  was  the 
meaning  of  it  ?  And,  once  again,  what  was  Lady 
May  Quisante  thinking  of?  Was  she  blind,  was 
she  careless?  Or  were  the  doctors  idiots?  The 
world,  conscious  of  its  own  physical  frailty,  shrank 
from  the  last  question  and  confined  its  serious  atten- 
tion to  the  two  preceding  ones.  "  Does  she  want 
to  kill  him  ?  "  asked  the  honest  graspers  of  the  ob- 
vious. "  Does  she  think  him  above  all  laws  ?"  was 
the  question  of  those  who  wished  to  be  more  subtle. 
At  least  she  was  a  puzzle.  All  agreed  on  that. 

Lady  Richard  discountenanced  all  speculation 
and  all  questionings.  For  her  part  she  did  her 
duty,  mentioning  to  Mrs.  Baxter  that  this  was  what 
she  meant  to  do  and  that,  whatever  happened,  she 
intended  to  be  able,  salvd  conscientid,  to  tell  herself 
that  she  had  done  it ;  Mrs.  Baxter  approved,  saying 
that  this  was  what  the  second  Mrs.  Greening  had 
done  when  her  husband's  sister's  daughter,  a  very 
emancipated  young  woman  as  it  seemed,  had  incom- 
prehensibly flirted  with  the  auctioneer's  apprentice 
and  had  scouted  Mrs.  Greening's  control ;  Mrs. 
Greening  had  told  the  girl's  mother  and  sent  the 
girl  home,  second  class,  under  the  care  of  the  guard. 
Similarly  then  Lady  Richard,  without  embarking 
on  any  consideration  of  ultimate  problems,  wrote  to 
May,  suggesting  that  Mr.  Quisante  wanted  rest  and 
putting  Ashwood  at  her  disposal  for  so  long  as  she 
and  her  husband  might  be  pleased  to  occupy  it.  "  If 
they  don't  choose  to  go,  it's  not  my  fault,"  said  Lady 
Richard  with  the  sigh  which  declares  that  every 


326  QUISANT£. 

reasonable  requirement  of  conscience  has  been  ful- 
filled. Happy  lady,  to  be  able  to  repose  in  this  con- 
viction by  the  simple  expedient  of  lending  a  house 
not  otherwise  required  at  the  moment !  So  kind 
are  we  to  our  own  actions  that  Lady  Richard  felt 
meritorious. 

They  chose  to  go,  and  went  unaccompanied  save 
by  their  baby  girl  and  Aunt  Maria — this  last  a 
strange  addition  made  at  Quisant6's  own  request. 
He  had  not  been  wont  to  show  such  a  desire  for  the 
old  lady's  society  when  there  was  nothing  to  be 
gained  by  seeking  it ;  nor  had  it  seemed  to  May 
altogether  certain  that  Miss  Quisant£  would  come. 
Yet  she  came  with  ardent  eagerness  and  her  nephew 
was  plainly  glad  to  have  her.  It  took  May  a  little 
while  to  understand  why,  but  soon  she  saw  the 
reason.  Aunt  Maria  was  deep  in  the  conspiracy,  or 
the  infatuation,  or  whatever  it  was  to  be  called  ;  she 
flattered  Quisant£'s  hope  of  life,  she  applauded  his 
defiance  of  the  inevitable ;  she  hung  on  him  more 
and  more,  herself  forgetting  and  making  him  forget 
the  peril  of  the  way  he  trod.  He  wanted  to  be  told 
that  he  was  right,  and  he  wanted  an  applauding 
audience.  In  both  ways  Aunt  Maria  satisfied  him. 
She  would  talk  of  the  present  as  though  it  were  no 
more  than  a  passing  interruption  of  a  long  career,  of 
the  future  as  though  it  stretched  in  assured  leisure 
through  years  of  great  achievement,  of  his  life  and 
his  life's  work  as  though  both  were  in  his  own  hand 
and  subject  to  nothing  save  his  own  will  and  power. 
She  was  to  him  the  readiest  echo  of  the  world's 
wonder  and  applause,  the  readiest  assurance  that  his 


FOR  LACK  OF  LOVE?  327 

great  effort  was  not  going  unrecognised.  Hence  he 
would  have  her  with  him,  though  there  seemed  no 
more  love  and  no  more  tenderness  between  them 
than  when  in  old  days  they  had  quarrelled  and  he 
had  grumbled  and  she  had  flung  him  her  money 
with  a  bitter  jeer.  But  she  lived  in  him  and  could 
think  of  him  only  as  living,  and  through  her  he  could 
cheat  himself  into  an  assurance  that  indeed  he  could 
live  and  work. 

Then  Aunt  Maria  was  very  bad  for  him.  That 
could  not  be  denied,  but  something  more  nearly 
touching  herself  pressed  on  May  Quisante\  She 
had  seen  the  Mildmays'  painful  puzzle ;  she  had 
listened  to  Dr.  Claud  Manton's  energetic  warning ; 
it  was  before  her,  no  less  than  before  the  patient, 
that  Sir  Rufus  had  washed  his  hands.  She  was  not 
ignorant  of  the  questions  the  world  asked.  She 
was  not  careless,  nor  was  she  any  longer  the  dupe  of 
her  old  delusion  that  such  a  man  as  Quisant£  could 
not  die.  Her  eye  for  truth  had  conquered  ;  now  she 
believed  that,  if  he  persisted  in  his  rebellion,  he  must 
surely  die  ;  unless  all  medical  knowledge  went  for 
nothing,  he  would  surely  die,  and  die  not  after  long 
years  of  lingering,  but  soon,  perhaps  very  soon.  A 
moment  of  excitement,  say  one  of  the  moments  that 
she  had  loved  so  much,  might  kill  him  ;  so  Claud 
Manton  said.  A  life  of  excitement  would  surely  and 
early  do  the  work.  And  why  was  he  rebellious? 
She  accused  himself,  she  accused  Aunt  Maria,  she 
accused  the  foolishly  wondering,  foolishly  chattering 
world  ;  and  in  every  accusation  there  was  some  jus- 
tice. Was  there  enough  to  acquit  the  other  defend- 


328  QUISANT£. 

ant  who  stood  arraigned  ?  To  that  she  dared  not 
answer  "  Yes,"  because  of  the  fear  which  was  in  her 
that  the  strongest  amongst  all  the  various  impulses 
driving  him  to  his  defiance  was  in  the  end  to  be 
found  in  his  relations  to  her,  in  the  attitude  of  his 
own  wife  towards  him.  Ashwood  was  full  of  associa- 
tions; there  was  Duty  Hill,  where  he  had  risen  to 
his  greatest  and  thereby  won  her ;  there  was  the  tree 
beneath  which  she  had  sat  with  Marchmont  on  the 
evening  when  the  knowledge  of  her  husband's  worst 
side  had  been  driven  like  a  sharp  knife  into  her  very 
heart.  But  more  vivid  than  these  memories  now  was 
the  recollection  of  that  first  evening  when  she  had  seen 
him  sitting  alone,  nobody's  friend,  and  had  deter- 
mined to  be  human  towards  him  and  to  treat  him  in 
a  human  way.  There  had  been  the  true  beginning 
of  her  great  experiment.  Now  she  told  herself  that 
she  had  failed  in  it,  had  never  been  human  to  him, 
and  had  never  treated  him  in  a  human  way,  had  not 
been  what  a  man's  wife  should  be,  had  stood  always 
outside,  a  follower,  an  admirer,  a  critic,  an  accuser* 
never  simply  the  woman  who  was  his  wife.  His 
fault  or  hers,  or  that  of  both — it  seemed  to  matter 
little.  The  experiment  had  been  hers ;  and  because 
she  had  made  it  and  failed,  it  seemed  to  her  that  he 
was  braving  death.  Had  she  been  different,  perhaps 
he  would  not  have  rebelled  and  could  have  lived  the 
quiet  life  with  her.  It  needed  little  more  to  make 
her  tell  herself  that  she  drove  him  to  his  death,  that 
she  was  with  the  enemy,  with  the  chattering  world 
and  with  poor  deluded  old  Aunt  Maria ;  she  was  of 
the  conspirators ;  she  egged  him  on  to  brave  his  doom. 


FOR  LACK  OF  LOVE  ?  329 

In  darker  vein  still  ran  her  musings  sometimes, 
when  there  came  over  her  that  haunting  self-distrust, 
the  fear  that  she  was  juggling  with  herself,  shutting 
her  eyes  to  the  sin  of  her  own  heart,  and,  in  spite  of 
all  her  protestations,  was  really  inspired  by  a  secret 
hope  too  black  and  treacherous  to  put  in  words. 
However  passionately  she  repudiated  it,  it  still  cried 
mockingly,  "  I  am  here  !  "  It  asked  if  her  prayers  for 
her  husband's  life  were  sincere,  if  her  care  for  him 
were  more  than  a  due  paid  to  decency,  if  the  doom 
were  in  truth  a  thing  she  dreaded,  and  not  a  deliver- 
ance which  convention  alone  forbade  her  openly  to 
desire.  Plainly,  plainly — did  she  wish  the  doom  to 
fall,  did  she  wish  him  dead,  was  the  rebellion  that 
threatened  death  the  course  which  the  secret  craving 
of  her  heart  urged  him  to  take  ?  To  do  everything 
for  him  was  not  enough,  if  the  doubt  still  lurked  that 
her  heart  was  not  in  the  doing.  For  now  she  could 
no  more  ask  coolly  what  she  wished  ;  the  thing  had 
come  too  near  ;  it  was  odious  to  have  a  thought  ex- 
cept of  saving  him  by  all  means  and  at  every  cost ; 
it  was  intolerable  not  to  know  at  least  that  no  part 
of  the  impulse  which  drove  him  to  his  rebellion  lay 
at  her  door,  not  to  feel  at  least  that  she  had  nothing 
but  dread  and  horror  for  the  threatened  doom.  She 
had  no  love  for  him  ;  it  came  home  to  her  now  with 
a  strange  new  sense  of  self-condemnation ;  she  had 
married  him  for  her  own  pleasure,  because  he  inter- 
ested her  and  made  life  seem  dull  without  him.  She 
pleaded  no  more  that  he  had  killed  her  love ;  it  had 
never  been  there  to  kill.  Had  she  left  him  to  find  a 
woman  who  loved  him  in  and  for  himself,  not  for 


330  QUISANT£. 

his  doings,  not  for  the  interest  of  him,  that  woman 
might  now  be  winning  him  by  love  from  the  open 
jaws  of  death. 

Yet  again  laughter,  obstinate  and  irrepressible, 
shot  often  in  a  jarring  streak  of  inharmonious  colour 
across  the  sombre  fabric  of  her  thoughts.  He  was 
not  only  mad,  not  only  splendid — he  seemed  both 
to  her — he  was  absurd  too  at  moments,  often  when 
he  was  with  Aunt  Maria.  Letters  came  in  great 
numbers,  from  political  followers,  from  women  prom- 
inent in  society,  from  constituents,  from  old  Foster 
and  Japhet  Williams  at  Henstead,  even  from  puis- 
sant Lady  Castlefort ;  they  wondered,  applauded, 
implored,  flattered,  in  every  key  of  that  sweet  instru- 
ment called  praise.  Quisant6  read  them  out,  plum- 
ing and  preening  his  feathers,  strutting  about,  crow- 
ing. He  would  repeat  the  passages  he  liked,  asking 
his  wife's  approbation  ;  that  he  must  have,  it  seemed. 
She  gave  it  with  what  heartiness  she  could,  and 
laughed  only  in  her  sleeve.  Surely  a  man  facing 
death  could  have  forgotten  all  this?  Not  Alexander 
Quisant6.  He  could  die,  and  die  bravely  ;  but  the 
world  must  stand  by  his  bedside.  So  till  the  end, 
whenever  that  most  uncertainly  dated  end  might 
come,  the  old  mixture  promised  to  go  on,  the  great 
and  small,  the  mean  and  grand,  the  call  for  tears  and 
throbs  of  the  heart  alternating  with  the  obstinate 
curling  or  curving  of  lips  swift  to  respond  to  the 
vision  of  the  contemptible  or  the  ludicrous. 

But  she  had  her  appeal  to  make,  the  one  thing,  it 
seemed,  she  could  do  to  put  herself  at  all  in  the 
right,  the  offer  she  must  make,  and  try  to  make  with 


FOR  LACK  OF  LOVE?  331 

a  sincerity  which  should  rise  unimpaired  from  the 
conflicts  of  her  heart.  She  had  caught  at  coming  to 
Ashwood  because  she  thought  she  could  make  it 
best  there,  not  indeed  in  the  room  where  she  had 
lied  for  him,  nor  by  the  tree  where  she  had  turned 
to  Marchmont  in  a  pang  of  wild  regret,  but  there, 
on  Duty  Hill,  where  he  had  won  her,  had  touched 
his  highest,  and  had  seemed  a  conqueror.  She  took 
him  there,  climbing  with  him  very  slowly,  very 
gently  ;  there  she  made  him  sit  and  sat  by  him. 
Again  it  was  a  quiet  evening,  and  still  the  valley 
stretched  below  ;  nothing  changed  here  made  all  the 
changes  of  her  life  seem  half  unreal.  Here  she  told 
him  he  must  live,  he  must  be  docile  and  must  live. 

"You  may  get  strong  again,  but  for  the  time  you 
must  do  as  the  doctors  say.  You  ought  to  ;  for  the 
little  girl's  sake,  if  for  nothing  else,  you  ought  to. 
You  know  you're  risking  another  seizure  now,  and 
you  know  what  that  might  mean." 

His  eyes  were  fixed  keenly  on  her,  though  he  lay 
back  motionless  in  weariness. 

"  You  ought  to  live  for  your  daughter."  She 
paused  a  minute  and  added,  "  And  some  day  we 
might  have  a  son,  and  you'd  live  again  in  him  ;  we 
both  should  ;  we  should  feel  that  we  were  doing — 
that  you  were  doing — everything  he  did.  I  think 
your  son  would  be  a  great  man,  and  I  should  be 
proud  to  be  his  mother.  Isn't  the  hope  of  that 
worth  something?" 

He  was  silent,  watching  her  closely  still. 

"  I  know  what  you  think  of  me,"  she  continued. 
"  You  think  an  active  life  essential  to  me,  that  I  can't 


332  QUISANTE. 

do  without  it.  God  knows  I  loved  all  you  did,  I 
loved  your  triumphs,  I  loved  to  hear  you  speak  and 
see  them  listen.  You  know  I  loved  all  that,  loved 
it  too  much  perhaps.  But  I'll  do  without  it.  I'm 
your  wife,  your  fate's  mine.  It'll  be  the  braver 
thing  for  you  to  face  it,  really ;  I'm  ready  to  face  it 
with  you." 

Still  he  would  only  look  at  her. 

"  We  know  what  we  both  are,"  she  went  on  with 
a  little  smile.  "  We're  not  Mildmays,  you  and  I. 
But  let's  try.  I  must  tell  you.  I  can't  bear  to  think 
that  it's  partly  at  least  because  of  me  that  you  won't 
try,  that  if  I  were  a  different  sort  of  woman  it  might 
be  much  easier  for  you  to  try.  If  it's  that  at  all, 
imagine  what  I  should  feel  if — if  anything  happened 
such  as  the  doctors  are  afraid  of." 

"  I've  chosen  my  course.  I  believe  the  doctors 
are  all  wrong." 

"  Do  you  really  believe  that  ?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  seeming  to  say  that  he 
would  not  discuss  it.  "  A  great  many  considerations 
influence  me,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of  pompousness. 

"  Am  I  one  of  them  ?  "  she  persisted.  "  Because  I 
don't  want  to  be.  I'm  ready  to  share  your  life, 
whatever  it  is." 

"  Are  you  ? "  he  asked,  with  something  of  the 
same  malicious  smile  that  he  was  wont  to  bestow  on 
Aunt  Maria.  "  Do  you  think  you  could  share  my 
life  ?  Do  you  think  you  have?  " 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  flushing  a 
little.  "  I  daresay  I've  been  hard  and — and  didn't 
take  the  pains  to  understand,  and  was  uncharitable 


FOR  LACK  OF  LOVE?  333 

perhaps.  Anyhow  there'll  be  no  opportunity  for 
any  more — any  more  misunderstandings  of  that 
sort." 

"  No ;  the  understanding's  clear  enough  now," 
said  he. 

She  looked  at  him  almost  despairingly  ;  he  seemed 
so  strangely  hostile,  so  bitterly  sensitive  to  her  judg- 
ment of  him. 

"  You  think  me,"  he  went  on,  with  his  persistent 
eyes  unwaveringly  set  on  her,  "  a  not  over-honest 
mountebank;  that's  what  you  and  your  friends  think 
me." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I'd  never  tried  to  talk  to  you  about 
it ! "  she  cried.  "  You  take  hold  of  some  hasty 
mood  or  look  of  mine  and  treat  it  as  if  it  were  every- 
thing. You  know  it  isn't." 

"  It's  there,  though." 

"  It  never  need  be,  never,  never." 

"  You'll  forget  it  all  when  we're  settled  down  at — 
where  was  it  ? — Torquay  or  somewhere — in  our  villa, 
like  two  old  tabby-cats  sitting  in  the  sun  ?  No  time 
to  think  it  all  over  then  ?  No,  only  all  the  hours  of 
every  day  !  "  He  paused  and  then  added  in  a  low 
hard  voice,  "  I'm  damned  if  I'll  do  it.  I  may  have  to 
die,  but  I'll  die  standing.''  His  eyes  gleamed  now, 
and  for  the  first  time  they  turned  from  her  and 
roamed  over  the  prospect  that  lay  below  Duty  Hill. 
But  they  were  back  on  her  face  soon. 

"  No,  no,"  she  implored.  "  Not  because  of  me, 
for  heaven's  sake,  not  because  of  me  !  " 

"  Because  of  it  all.  Yes,  and  because  of  you  too. 
You  don't  love  me,  you  never  have."  He  leant  to- 


334  QUISANT£. 

wards  her.  "  But  I  love  you,"  he  said,  "  yes,  as  I 
loved  you  when  I  asked  you  to  be  my  wife  on  this 
hill  where  we  are.  Then  don't  you  understand  ?  I 
won't  go  and  live  that  old  cat's  life  with  you."  He 
laid  his  hand  on  hers.  "  Your  eyes  shall  still  sparkle 
for  me,  your  breath  shall  still  come  quick  for  me, 
your  heart  beat  for  me ;  or  I'll  have  no  more  of  it 
at  all." 

The  touch  of  rhetoric,  so  characteristic  of  him,  so 
unlike  anything  that  Marchmont  or  Dick  Benyon 
would  have  used  in  such  a  case,  did  not  displease 
her  then.  And  it  hit  the  truth  as  his  penetration 
was  wont  to  hit  it.  That  was  what  he  wanted,  that 
was  what  she  could  and  should  and  must  give,  or  he 
would  have  nothing  from  her.  Here  was  the  truth  ; 
but  the  truth  was  what  she  had  struggled  so  hard  to 
deny  and  feared  so  terribly  to  find  true.  He  was 
not  indeed  led  by  a  sense  of  obligation  towards  her ; 
the  need  was  for  himself.  It  was  not  that  he  felt  in 
her  a  right  to  call  on  him  for  exertions  or  for  a  per- 
formance of  his  side  of  the  bargain ;  it  was  that  he 
could  not  bear  to  lose  his  tribute  from  her.  But 
still  she  stood  self-condemned.  Again  the  thought 
came — with  a  woman  who  loved  him  there  might 
have  been  another  tribute  that  she  could  have  paid 
and  he  been  content  to  levy.  He  would  have  be- 
lieved such  a  woman  if  she  told  him  that  he  would 
be  as  much  to  her,  and  she  as  much  absorbed  in  him, 
in  the  villa  at  Torquay  as  ever  in  the  great  world  ; 
and  perhaps — oh,  only  perhaps,  it  is  true — he  would 
have  made  shift  with  that  and  fed  his  appetite  on 
the  homage  of  one,  since  his  wretched  body  denied 


FOR  LACK  OF  LOVE?  335 

him  the  rows  on  rows  of  applauding  spectators  that 
he  loved.  But  from  his  wife's  lips  he  would  not 
accept  any  such  assurance,  and  from  her  no  such 
homage  could  be  hoped  for  to  solace  him. 

Then  the  strange  creature  began  to  talk  to  her, 
not  of  what  he  had  done,  nor  even  of  what  he  had 
hoped  to  do,  but  of  what  he  meant  and  was  going 
to  do ;  how  he  would  grow  greater  and  richer,  of 
schemes  in  politics  and  in  business,  of  the  fervour 
and  devotion  of  the  fighting  men  behind  him  and 
how  they  were  sick  of  the  old  gang  and  would  have 
no  leader  but  Alexander  Quisant£  ;  of  the  prosperity 
of  the  Alethea,  how  the  shares  rose,  how  big  orders 
came  in,  how  utterly  poor  old  Maturin  had  blundered. 
He  spoke  like  a  strong  man  with  a  wealth  of  years 
and  store-houses  of  force,  who  sees  life  stretched  long 
before  him,  material  to  be  shaped  by  his  hand  and 
forced  into  what  he  will  make  it.  He  talked  low 
and  fast,  his  eyes  again  roaming  over  the  prospect ; 
the  evening  fell  while  he  still  talked.  Almost  it 
seemed  then  that  the  doctors  were  wrong,  that  his 
courage  was  no  folly,  that  indeed  he  would  not  die. 
O  for  the  faith  to  believe  that !  For  his  spell  was 
on  her  again  now,  and  now  she  would  not  have  him 
die.  Once  again  he  had  his  desire ;  once  more  her 
heart  beat  and  her  eyes  gleamed  for  him.  But  then 
it  came  on  her,  with  a  sudden  fierce  light  of  convic- 
tion, that  all  this  was  hollow,  useless,  vain,  that  the 
sentence  was  written  and  the  doom  pronounced.  No 
pleading  however  eloquent  could  alter  it.  Quisante 
was  stopped  in  mid-career  by  a  short  sharp  sob  that 
escaped  from  his  wife's  lips.  He  turned  and  looked 


336  QUISANTE". 

at  her,  breaking  off  the  sentence  that  he  had  begun. 
She  met  his  glance  with  a  frightened  look  in  her 
eyes. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked  slowly,  rather 
resentfully. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  she  stammered.  "  I — I  was 
excited  by  what  you  were  saying."  She  tried  to 
laugh.  "  I'm  emotional,  you  know,  and  you  can 
always  rouse  my  emotions." 

"  Was  it  that  ?  "  For  a  moment  longer  he  sat  up- 
right, looking  hard  at  her ;  then  his  body  relaxed, 
and  he  lay  back,  his  lower  lip  dropping  and  his  eyes 
half  closed.  An  expression  of  great  weariness  and 
despair  came  over  him.  He  had  read  the  meaning 
of  her  sob  ;  and  now  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 
His  pretences  failed  him,  and  he  was  assailed  by  the 
bitterness  of  truth  and  of  death. 

She  rose,  saying,  "  It's  late,  we  must  go  in  ;  you'll 
be  over-tired." 

After  an  instant  Quisante1  rose  slowly  and  falter- 
ingly ;  he  laid  his  arm  in  hers,  and  they  stood  side 
by  side,  gazing  down  into  the  valley.  This  hill  had 
come  to  mean  much  in  their  lives,  and  somehow 
now  they  seemed  to  be  saying  good-bye  to  it. 

"  I  could  never  forget  this  hill,"  she  said,  "  any 
more  than  I  could  forget  you.  You  told  me  just 
now  that  I  didn't  love  you.  Well,  as  you  mean  it, 
perhaps  not.  But  you've  been  almost  everything  in 
the  world  to  me.  Everything  in  the  world  isn't  all 
good,  but  it's  —  everything."  She  turned  to  him 
suddenly  and  kissed  him  on  the  cheek.  "  Lean  on 
me  as  we  go  down  the  hill,"  she  said.  There  was 


FOR  LACK  OF  LOVE?  337 

pity  and  tenderness  in  the  words  and  the  tone.  But 
Quisante  drew  his  arm  sharply  away  and  braced  his 
body  to  uprightness. 

"  I'm  not  tired.  I  can  go  quite  well  by  myself. 
You  look  more  tired  than  I  do,"  he  said.  "  Come, 
we  shall  be  late,"  and  he  set  off  down  the  hill  at  a 
brisk  pace. 

Her  appeal  then  had  failed  ;  this  last  little  incident 
told  her  that  with  unpitying  plainness.  If  he  had 
yielded  for  a  moment  before  the  face  of  reality,  he 
soon  recovered  himself,  turned  away  from  the  sight, 
and  went  back  to  his  masquerading.  She  lacked 
the  power  to  lead  him  from  it,  and  again  she  feared 
that  she  lacked  the  power  because  her  will  was  not 
sincere  and  single.  Now  they  must  go  on  to  that 
uncertain  end,  he  playing  his  part  before  the  world, 
before  her  and  Aunt  Maria,  she  looking  on,  some- 
times in  admiration,  sometimes  in  contempt,  always 
in  fear  of  the  moment  when  the  actor's  speeches 
would  be  suddenly  cut  short  and  the  curtain,  falling 
on  the  interrupted  scene,  hide  him  for  ever  from  the 
audience  whom  he  had  made  wondering  applauding 
partners  in  his  counterfeit.  The  last  of  his  life  was 
to  be  like  the  rest  of  it,  with  the  same  elements  of 
tragedy  and  of  farce,  of  what  attracted  and  of  what 
revolted,  of  the  great  and  the  little.  It  was  to  be 
like  in  another  way  too ;  it  was  to  be  lived  alone, 
without  any  true  companion  for  his  soul,  without 
the  love  that  he  had  not  asked  except  of  one,  and, 
asking  of  that  one,  had  not  obtained.  As  the  days 
went  on,  the  fascination  of  the  spectacle  she  watched 


33S  QUISANTE. 

grew  on  her ;  it  was  more  poignant  now  than  in  the 
former  time,  and  it  filled  all  her  life.  Thus  in  some 
sort  Alexander  Quisante"  had  his  way  ;  his  hold  on 
her  was  not  relaxed,  his  dominion  over  her  not  ab- 
rogated, to  the  end  of  his  life  he  would  be  what  she 
told  him  he  had  been — almost  everything.  When 
the  end  came,  what  would  he  be  ?  The  question 
crossed  her  thoughts,  but  found  no  answer ;  some 
day  it  would  fall  to  be  answered.  Now  she  could 
only  watch  and  wait,  half  persuaded  that  the  pre- 
tence was  no  pretence,  yet  always  dreading  the 
summons  of  reality  to  end  the  play.  So  the  world 
asked  in  vain  what  May  Quisant£  was  thinking  of, 
whether  she  wanted  to  kill  him,  or  whether  she 
thought  him  above  all  laws.  A  puzzle  to  the  world 
and  a  puzzle  to  her  friends,  she  waited  for  the  falling 
of  the  blow  which  Quisante1  daily  challenged. 

Sir  Rufus  Beaming  met  Dr.  Claud  Manton  at  the 
Athenaeum  and  showed  him  a  newspaper  paragraph. 

"  To  address  a  great  meeting  at  Henstead  !  "  said 
Manton,  raising  his  brows  and  shaping  his  lips  for  a 
whistle.  " '  From  his  own  and  neighbouring  con- 
stituencies.' " 

"  He  might  just  as  well  take  chloroform  comfort- 
ably by  his  fireside,"  said  Sir  Rufus.  "  It  would  be 
a  little  quicker,  perhaps,  but  not  a  bit  more  sure." 

And  again  they  washed  their  hands  of  the  whole 
affair  very  solemnly. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

DEATH   DEFIED. 

CONST ANTINE  BLAIR,  no  less  active  and  soon  little 
less  serene  in  opposition  than  in  power,  felt  himself 
more  than  justified  in  all  that  he  had  ever  said 
about  Weston  Marchmont  when  he  received  an  in- 
timation of  Marchmont 's  intention  to  apply  for  the 
Chiltern  Hundreds.  Yet  he  was  aghast  at  this 
voluntary  retirement  into  the  wilderness  of  private 
life,  a  life  without  bustle,  without  gossip,  without 
that  sense  of  being  intimate  with  the  march  of 
affairs  and  behind  the  scenes  of  the  national  theatre. 
There  were  reasons  assigned,  of  course.  One  was 
that  Marchmont  found  himself  ("  I'll  bet  he  does!" 
groaned  Constantine  with  anticipatory  resignation) 
more  in  agreement  with  the  other  side  than  with  his 
own  on  an  important  question  of  foreign  politics 
then  to  the  front.  But  this  state  of  matters  had 
ceased  to  be  unusual  with  him  and  hardly  in  itself 
accounted  for  the  step  he  was  now  taking.  The 
care  of  his  estate  was  the  second  reason,  properly 
dismissed  as  plainly  frivolous.  In  the  end  of  the 
letter  more  sincerity  peeped  out,  as  the  writer 
lapsed  from  formality  into  friendship.  "  I  know  I 
shall  surprise  many  people  and  grieve  some,  but  I'm 
sick  of  the  thing.  I  can't  endure  the  perpetual 
haggling  between  what  I  ought  to  do  and  what  I'm 

339 


340  QUISANTE. 

expected  to  do ;  the  compromises  that  result 
satisfy  me  as  little  as  anybody.  In  fine,  my  dear 
Constantine,  I'm  going  back  to  my  pictures,  my 
books,  my  hills,  and  my  friends."  Constantine  read 
with  a  genuine  sorrow  and  criticised  with  a  con- 
temptuous sniff.  Pictures,  books — and  hills  !  Hills  ! 
It  was  insulting  his  intelligence.  And  though 
friends  were  all  very  well,  yet  where  was  the  use  of 
them  if  a  man  deprived  himself  of  all  the  sources  of 
entertaining  conversation  ?  But  there  was  nothing 
to  be  done — except  to  tell  Lady  Castlefort  a  day 
before  the  rest  of  the  world  knew.  Constantine 
held  her  favour  on  that  tenure.  She  showed  no 
surprise. 

"  A  loss  to  the  country,  but  not  to  us,"  she  said. 

"  Just  what  I  think,"  agreed  Constantine,  with 
a  revival  of  cheerfulness. 

"  If  I  hadn't  known  him  since  he  was  so  high,  I'd 
wish  he  had  the  what-do-you-call-it  seizures  instead 
of  the  other  man." 

"  But  Quisant£'s  not  going,  he  means  to  hold  on," 
said  Constantine.  "  I'm  glad  of  it.  Henstead's 
very  shaky.  But  we  shall  hold  Marchmont's  seat  all 
right.  We're  going  to  put  up  Dick  Benyon." 

"  He's  safe  enough,  he  won't  worry  you,"  said 
Lady  Castlefort.  "  You'll  have  to  fight  Henstead  be- 
fore long,  all  the  same.  The  man'll  die,  you  know." 

"  Think  so  ?  "  asked  Constantine  uneasily. 

"  And  he  will  be  a  loss — a  loss  to  us,  whatever  one 
may  think  about  the  country."  Constantine  looked 
troubled.  "  Oh,  it's  not  your  business  to  think 
about  the  country — or  mine  either,  thank  goodness," 


DEATH  DEFIED.  341 

she  added  rather  irritably.  She  was  more  distressed 
about  Weston  Marchmont  than  she  chose  to  tell ; 
and  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  annoyed  at  the  per- 
versity. Of  the  two  men  whom  she  had  singled  out 
for  greatness  one  might  go  on  but  would  not,  the 
other  asked  nothing  but  to  be  allowed  to  go  on,  and 
found  refusal  at  the  hands  of  fate.  There  was  an- 
other thing  in  her  thoughts  too.  She  had  a  strong 
belief  in  hostesses,  natural  to  her,  perhaps  not  un- 
reasonable. In  either  of  two  events  she  had  fore- 
seen an  ideal  hostess  for  the  party  in  the  woman 
she  still  thought  of  as  May  Gaston.  There  was  no 
need  to  detail  the  two  events ;  suffice  it  to  say  that, 
whichever  of  them  now  happened,  it  appeared  that 
May  Gaston  would  not  be  able  to  figure  as  a  great 
hostess;  at  least  there  would  have  to  rise  for  her 
some  star  not  yet  visible  in  the  heavens. 

Marchmont  and  May  had  neither  met  nor  writ- 
ten to  one  another  since  their  talk  under  the  tree  at 
Ashwood.  He  had  not  doubted  that  she  would 
understand  silence  and  like  silence  best ;  from  him 
any  word  seemed  impossible.  But  on  the  day  when 
his  determination  was  made  public  he  received  a 
summons  from  her  and  at  once  obeyed  it.  He  found 
her  alone,  though  she  told  him  that  she  expected 
Quisant£  back  from  the  City  in  a  little  while. 

"  He  wants  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  know 
why,  unless  it's  just  as  a  curiosity."  She  smiled  for 
a  moment.  "  I'm  sorry  you  find  you  can't  stand  it," 
she  went  on. 

"  You  understand  ?  You've  been  in  that  state  of 
mind  or  pretty  near  it,  I  know." 


342  QUISANT£. 

"Yes,  pretty  near  at  times,  but  I'm  not  as  honest 
as  you.  I  may  see  all  you  see,  but  I  should  always 
go  on."  She  glanced  at  him.  "  I'm  more  like  my 
husband  than  I'm  like  you,"  she  ended. 

"  I  don't  believe  that,"  he  said  gravely. 

"  I  know  you  don't,  but  it's  true.  I  daresay  you 
never  will  understand  it,  because  of  the  other  May 
Gaston  you've  made  for  yourself.  But  it's  true. 
And  you  know  what  he  is.  He's  ready  to  give 
body  and  soul — Oh,  I'm  not  just  using  a  phrase — 
body  and  soul  to  keep  the  things  that  you've  given 
up  for  your  hills.  How  scornful  your  hills  made 
Constantine  Blair ! " 

"  Are  you  importing  metaphorical  meanings  into 
my  hills  ?  "  he  asked,  sitting  down  near  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  Mr.  Blair  didn't,  but  I 
do." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  rather  a  silly  thing  to  say." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"  I  mean  to  Constantine." 

"  Oh,  well  then,  perhaps  it  was,"  she  admitted, 
smiling.  "  But  that's  all  consistent,  isn't  it?  You 
couldn't  trim  your  sails  to  suit  the  breeze  even  in 
a  letter  like  that." 

"  Are  you  rebuking  me  ?  Are  you  contemptu- 
ous? What  are  you?"  He  leant  back  and  looked 
at  her,  smiling. 

"If  my  husband  would  do  what  you've  done,  he 
might  live,"  she  said. 

Marchmont  nodded  gravely ;  it  was  easy  to  see 
the  odd  way  in  which  his  action  fitted  into  the 
drama  of  her  life. 


DEATH  DEFIED.  343 

"  But  we've  no  hills,"  she  went  on.  "  You  leave 
London — all  London  means — to  wander  on  hills, 
high  glorious  hills  ;  he'd  leave  it  for  a  villa,  a  small 
villa  at  a  seaside  place." 

"  Metaphors  again?" 

"  It  comes  easier  to  talk  in  them  sometimes. 
And  I — I'm  of  my  husband's  way  of  thinking." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  he  -said  again,  but  looking  at 
her  now  with  a  little  touch  of  doubt. 

"You'll  never  come  back,  will  you  ?*'  she  asked. 

"  Never,"  said  he  with  a  quiet  certainty. 

She  rose  with  a  restless  sigh  and  walked  to  the 
fireplace. 

"  I  couldn't,"  he  went  on.  *'  I'm  not  fit  for  it ; 
that's  the  end  of  the  matter.  Use  your  own  term 
of  abuse.  I  shall  hear  plenty  of  them." 

"  I  don't  want  to  abuse  you,"  she  said.  She  walked 
quickly  over  to  him,  gave  him  her  hand  for  a  moment, 
and  then  returned  to  her  place.  "  But  it  makes  me 
feel  rather  strange  to  you."  She  looked  full  at  him 
with  a  plain  distress  in  her  eyes,  and  her  voice  shook 
a  little.  "  I'm  coming  to  feel  more  strange  towards 
you,"  she  went  on.  "  I  thought  we  had  got  nearer 
at  Ashwood,  we  did  for  the  moment.  But  now  I'm 
farther  off  again." 

14 1  would  have  you  always  very  near,"  he  said  in 
low  tones,  his  eyes  saying  more  than  his  lips. 

"  I  know.  And  perhaps  you've  had  thoughts — " 
She  paused  before  she  added,  "  Alexander's  quite 
set  on  his  course,  nothing  will  stop  him — except 
the  thing  that  I  expect  to  stop  him.  You  know 
what  I  mean?" 


344  QUISANTE. 

Marchmont  nodded  again.     , 

"  And  he's  doing  it  a  good  deal  because  of  me.  I 
wonder  if  you  understand  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  do." 

"  No ;  he  knows  more  of  me  than  you  do." 

She  became  silent,  and  he,  watching  her,  was 
silent  too.  What  was  this  strangeness  of  which  she 
spoke  ?  He  felt  it  too  but  without  understanding 
it.  It  caused  in  him  a  vague  discomfort,  an  appre- 
hension that  some  obstacle  was  between  them,  some- 
thing more  than  any  external  hindrance,  a  thing 
which  might  perhaps  remain  though  all  external 
hindrance  were  removed.  Her  last  words  both 
puzzled  and  wounded  him  with  their  implication  of 
a  deeper  sympathy  between  Quisant£  and  herself 
than  existed  or  could  exist  between  her  and  him. 
That  he  did  not  understand,  and  could  not  without 
giving  up  his  own  idea  of  her,  the  May  Gaston 
which,  as  she  said,  he  had  made  for  himself.  Was 
his  image  gone  indeed  ?  Had  Alexander  Quisante's 
chisel  altered  the  features  beyond  recognition  and 
till  true  identity  was  gone?  Yet  Alexander  Qui- 
sant6  was  the  man  who  had  put  on  her  the  shame 
for  which  she  had  sobbed  under  the  tree  on  that 
evening  at  Ashwood.  Before  such  a  seeming  con- 
tradiction his  penetration  stood  baffled.  She  had 
said  then  that  her  present  life  would,  she  supposed, 
go  on  right  to  the  end,  and  had  said  it  as  though 
the  prospect  were  unendurable ;  now  a  new  and  to 
him  unnatural  resignation  seemed  to  have  come  upon 
her,  just  when  her  present  life  had  shown  that  it  was 
not  likely  to  go  on  right  to  the  end. 


DEATH  DEFIED.  345 

"  I've  prayed  my  husband  to  give  up,"  she  said, 
"  I  don't  beg  you  not  to  give  up.  To  begin  with,  you 
wouldn't  listen  to  me  any  more  than  he  did.  And 
then,  I  suppose,  you're  right  for  yourself." 

"  You're  about  the  only  person  who'll  say  so." 

"  I  daresay.  I've  learnt  about  you  in  learning 
about  myself.  And  I  can  feel  it  just  as  you  do — Oh, 
how  intolerably  strongly  sometimes  !  "  She  added 
with  a  smile,  "  We've  only  just  missed  suiting  one 
another,"  alffi  then,  "  Yes,  but  we  have  missed,  you 
know." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  he  persisted,  struggling  to 
throw  off  the  new  doubt  she  was  thrusting  into  his 
mind.  His  thought  was  that,  once  she  got  free  of 
her  husband,  she  would  indeed  be  his.  That  he  must 
hold  to.  It  was  Quisante,  not  she  herself,  who  made 
her  now  feel  strange  to  him ;  and  Quisant6's  spell 
was  not  to  last ;  her  quiet  certitude  that  her  hus- 
band's days  were  numbered  carried  conviction  to 
him  also.  "  But  I  won't  talk  any  more  about  it  now," 
he  said. 

"  No,  it  seems  inhuman,"  she  agreed.  "  I  spend 
all  my  days  cheating  myself  into  a  hope  that  he'll 
get  better.  I  know  you  don't  like  him,  but  if  you 
lived  with  him  as  I  do,  you'd  come  to  hope  as  I  do. 
Yes,  in  spite  of  all  you  know  about  us ;  and  you 
know  more  than  anybody  alive.  I've  not  been  so — 
so  disloyal — to  anybody  else."  She  smiled  as  she 
quoted  the  word  against  him. 

"  One  must  admire  him,"  said  Marchmont. 

May  Quisant^  laughed  at  his  tone  almost  scorn- 
fully. "  The  way  you  say  that  shows  how  little  you 


346  QUISANT£. 

understand,"  she  exclaimed.  "  It's  not  a  bit  like 
that."  She  took  a  step  nearer  to  him.  "  When  it 
comes,"  she  said  slowly,  "  I  shan't  shed  a  single  tear, 
but  I  shall  feel  that  my  life's  over.  He'll  have  had 
it  all." 

"  God  forbid  you  should  feel  anything  like  that," 
he  said,  looking  up  at  her. 

She  laughed  again,  asking  bitterly,  "  Does  God 
forbid  what  Alexander  wants — except  one  thing  ? 
And  what  I  tell  you  is  what  he  would  want.  He 
would  want  to  have  had  it  all." 

He  raised  his  hand  in  protest. 

"  You're  right  ;  we  won't  talk  any  more,"  she  said. 
"  But  don't  think  that  it's  all  only  because  I'm  over- 
wrought, or  something  feminine  of  that  kind.  It's 
the  truth.  When  it  comes,  Aunt  Maria'll  die  and  I 
shall  live  ;  but  the  difference  won't  be  as  great  as  it 
sounds." 

This  time  he  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  stopped 
him,  saying,  "  No,  no  more  now.  Tell  me  about 
Dick  Benyon.  He's  to  have  your  seat,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  gathered  to  my  fathers,  and  Dick  reigns 
in  my  stead." 

"  You're  sorry  ?  "  she  asked,  forgetting  Dick  and 
coming  back  again  to  the  man  before  her. 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  accept  the  inevitable  and  contrive  to 
be  quite  cheerful  about  it." 

"  We  don't  do  either  of  those  things.  Hark,  I 
hear  my  husband's  step." 

Quisant6  ran  quickly  up  the  stairs  and  burst  into 
the  room.  His  face  was  alight  with  animation,  and 
before  greeting  March mont  he  cried,  "  I've  carried 


DEATH  DEFIED.  347 

it,  I've  brought  them  round.  We  attack  all  along 
the  line,  and  I  open  the  ball  at  Henstead  next  week  ! 
They'll  be  out  in  six  months,  and  I  shall — "  Suddenly 
he  paused.  "They'll  be  out  in  six  months,"  he  said 
again. 

Marchmont  rose  and  shook  hands,  "  It  doesn't 
matter  to  me  now  if  they  are,"  he  said,  laughing. 
"  Blair's  troubles  and  mine  are  both  over  now." 

"  I  know,"  nodded  Quisant£.  "  Well,  I  suppose 
you  know  best.  But  hasn't  May  been  trying  to 
convert  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  haven't  tried  to  convert  him,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  not  going  to  try  to  convert  people  any 
more." 

After  this  she  fell  into  silence,  listening  and  watch- 
ing while  the  two  men  talked.  Talk  between  them 
could  never  be  intimate  and  could  hardly  be  even 
easy,  but  they  interested  one  another  to-day.  On 
Quisante's  face  especially  there  was  a  look  of  search- 
ing, of  wonder,  of  a  kind  of  protest.  Once  he  flung 
himself  back  and  stared  at  his  guest  with  a  fixity  of 
gaze  painful  to  see.  But  he  said  nothing  of  what 
was  passing  in  his  mind.  At  last  Marchmont  turned 
to  May  again. 

"  I  shall  hear  of  you  at  Henstead,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
going  to  pay  the  Mildmays  a  visit.  I  suppose,  as 
you're  on  the  war-path,  you  won't  come  over?" 

"  I  might,"  she  said,  "  if  we  were  there  long  enough. 
I  expect  Alexander  mustn't.  Friendship  with  the 
enemy  is  not  always  appreciated." 

"Oh,    I  might  go,"  Quisante   remarked.     "The 


348  QUISANTE\ 

Alethea's  an  admirable  excuse."  He  spoke  with 
a  laugh  but  then,  glancing  at  his  wife,  saw  her 
face  flush.  He  turned  to  Marchmont  and  found 
him  rising  to  his  feet.  Much  puzzled,  Quisante 
looked  again  from  one  to  the  other,  noting  the 
sudden  constraint  that  had  fallen  on  them.  What 
had  he  said?  What  was  there  in  the  mention 
of  the  Alethea  to  disturb  a  conversation  so  har- 
monious ?  That  there  was  something  his  quick  wit 
told  him  in  a  moment.  While  Marchmont  said 
good-bye  to  May  he  stood  by,  frowning  a  little,  and 
then  escorted  his  guest  downstairs.  While  he  was 
away  his  wife  stood  quite  still  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  a  little  flushed  and  breathing  rather  quickly. 

Quisant^  came  back,  sat  down,  and  took  up  a 
newspaper.  May  sat  in  her  usual  chair,  doing  noth- 
ing. Presently  he  asked,  "  Did  I  say  anything 
wrong  ?  " 

"  No.  But  I'd  rather  you  didn't  talk  about  the 
Alethea  when  Mr.  Marchmont  is  with  us."  He 
looked  up  in  surprise.  "  It  embarrasses  me — and 
him  too." 

"  Embarrasses  you  ?     Why  should  it  ?  " 

"There's  no  use  in  my  telling  you." 

"  I  can't  see  why  it  should  embarrass  you.  Pray 
tell  me." 

She  sat  silent  for  a  moment  or  two.  "  It's  no 
good,"  she  said,  looking  over  to  him  with  a  forlorn 
smile.  He  moved  his  hand  impatiently.  "  Very 
well.  At  dinner  at  Ashwood,  on  the  night  you 
were  taken  ill,  somebody  talked  about  the  Alethea 
and  said  Professor  Maturin  had  told  him  there  was 


DEATH  DEFIED.  349 

a  fatal  defect  in  it.  He  hadn't  seen  the  prospectus. 

And  I "  She  paused  a  moment.  "  I  had  to  back 

up  your  version."  Again  she  broke  off  for  a  moment. 
"  And  after  dinner  Mr.  Marchmont  talked  to  me , 
and  I  cried  about  it.  So,  you  see,  references  are 
embarrassing." 

After  a  pause  of  a  minute  or  two  Quisant£  said, 
"  Cried  about  it  ?  About  what  ?  " 

She  raised  her  eyes,  looked  at  him  a  moment,  and 
said  simply,  "  About  having  to  tell  a  lie  to  them." 
And  she  added  with  a  sudden  quiver  in  her  voice, 
"  I've  known  them  all  my  life." 

"  Maturin  was  quite  wrong.  There's  absolutely  no 
doubt  about  that  now." 

"  Was  he  ?  "  she  asked  listlessly. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  That  he'd  expressed  a  favourable  opinion  about 
it  to  you.  I  kept  to  the  prospectus.  Oh,  there's 
no  use  talking.  It's  only  with  Mr.  Marchmont  that 
it  matters.  I  can't  keep  it  up  before  him,  because 
he  found  me  crying,  you  know." 

"  Crying !  "  murmured  Quisant£.  "  Crying  ! " 
She  nodded  at  him,  with  the  same  faint  smile  on 
her  lips.  The  silence  seemed  very  long  as  she  looked 
at  him  and  he  gazed  straight  before  him,  the  for- 
gotten paper  falling  with  a  rustle  from  his  knees  on 
to  the  floor. 

"  You  never  told  me,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Why  should  I  ?  What  was  the  good  of  telling 
you  ?  " 

"  It  was  on  the  night  of  my — when  I  was  taken 
ill?" 


350  QUISANTE. 

"  Yes.  The  telegram  came  later  in  the  evening. 
Don't  bother  about  it  now,  Alexander." 

"  Did  you  hope  it  meant  I  was  dead  ?  " 

For  a  moment  she  sat  still ;  then  she  sprang  up, 
ran  across  the  room,  and  fell  on  her  knees  before 
him,  grasping  his  arms  in  her  hands.  "  No,  no,  no, 
I  didn't.  Indeed,  indeed,  I  didn't." 

He  sat  still  in  her  clasp,  looking  intently  in  her 
face.  His  was  hard  and  sneering. 

"  Yes,  you  did.  You  wished  me  dead.  By  God, 
you  wish  me  dead  now.  Well,  you  can  wait  a  little. 
I  shall  be  dead  soon."  With  a  sudden  rough  move- 
ment he  freed  himself  from  her  hands  and  pushed 
her  away.  "  I  suppose  wives  often  wish  their  hus- 
bands dead,  but  they  don't  tell  them  so  quite  so 
plainly." 

"  It's  not  true,  I've  never  told  you  so." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  a  fool.  I  don't  need  to  have  it 
spelt  out  for  me  in  syllables." 

She  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  and,  turning,  went 
back  to  her  own  chair.  Quisant£  sat  where  he  was, 
quite  motionless.  She  could  not  endure  to  look  at 
him  and,  rising,  went  and  stood  by  the  window, 
looking  out  on  the  river  she  loved.  This  moment 
was  in  strange  contrast  with  their  talk  on  Duty 
Hill;  the  two  together  summed  up  her  married  life 
and  the  nature  of  the  man  she  had  married.  But  it 
was  not  true  that  she  wished  him  dead ;  not  true 
now,  at  all  events,  even  though  the  charge  he  brought 
against  her  of  its  having  been  so  once  might  have 
some  truth  in  it.  For  if  ever  that  thought  had  crept 
into  her  mind  as  a  dreaded  shameful  wish,  it  was 


DEATH  DEFIED.  351 

when  she  seemed  able  to  look  forward  to  a  new  life. 
It  seemed  to  her  now  that  no  new  life  was  possible  ; 
that  impression  had  grown  and  grown  while  she 
talked  with  Weston  Marchmont,  and  it  pressed  upon 
her  now  with  the  weight  of  conviction. 

She  heard  her  husband  get  up  and  go  out  of  the 
room  ;  his  steps  sounded  going  upstairs,  in  the  di- 
rection of  his  study.  She  went  and  drew  the  chair 
up  to  the  hearthrug,  and  sat  down,  resting  her 
elbows  on  the  arms  and  holding  her  head  between 
her  hands.  It  was  very  wanton  that  a  chance  allu- 
sion of  his  should  have  brought  about  this  scene 
between  them.  Perhaps  she  could  have  put  him 
off  with  excuses,  but  that  had  not  occurred  to  her. 
The  scene  had  told  her  nothing  new,  but  it  had  torn 
away  the  last  of  the  veil  from  before  his  eyes.  He 
had  known  that  she  disapproved,  he  had  even  braved 
her  disapproval  when  he  could  not  hoodwink  or 
evade  it.  It  was  a  little  strange  that  he  should  be 
moved  to  such  a  transport  of  bitterness  by  hearing 
that  she  had  cried  over  telling  a  lie  for  him.  Yet 
that  was  it ;  she  was  sure  that  he  had  not  cared 
whether  Marchmont  saw  her  crying  or  not.  The 
tears  themselves  made  him  think  that  she  had 
wished  him  dead,  yes,  that  she  still  wished  him 
dead. 

He  must  not  die  thinking  that.  She  started  across 
the  room  towards  the  door,  at  a  quick  step  ;  it  was 
in  her  mind  to  follow  him  and  tell  him  again  that 
it  was  not  true,  that  he  would  ruin  and  empty  her 
life  if  he  died,  that  there  was  no  man  in  the  world 
who  could  be  what  he  was  to  her.  But  her  im- 


352  QUISANT£. 

pulse  failed  her  ;  he  would  sneer  again.  There  was 
one  thing  that  would  drive  away  his  sneer  if  she 
said  it  and  got  him  to  believe  it — that  she  loved  him 
as  he  loved  her.  Well,  she  couldn't  tell  him  that, 
and  he  would  not  believe  her  if  she  did.  She 
stopped  and  returned  to  her  chair.  She  leant  back 
now,  resting  her  head  on  the  cushion.  The  after- 
noon grew  old,  and  a  gleam  of  sinking  sun,  escaping 
from  the  grey  red-edged  clouds  that  hung  over  the 
river,  troubled  her  eyes ;  she  closed  them  and  re- 
clined in  stillness.  She  felt  very  tired,  worn  out 
with  the  stress  of  it,  with  the  conflict  and  the  strain. 
Strange  notions,  half  fancies,  half  dreams,  began  to 
flit  through  her  mind.  She  saw  the  end  come  in 
many  ways,  now  while  they  were  alone  together, 
now  in  some  public  place,  even  in  the  House,  or 
while  he  addressed  his  shareholders.  She  seemed 
to  hear  the  buzz  of  talk  that  followed  the  event,  the 
wonder  at  him,  the  blame  of  her ;  she  saw  poor  old 
Aunt  Maria's  trembling  hands  and  hopeless  face. 
Presently,  as  she  fell  into  an  unquiet  drowsiness,  she 
seemed  to  see  even  beyond  the  end,  as  though  the 
end  were  no  end  and  he  were  with  her  still,  his  spirit 
being  about  her,  enveloping  her,  still  wrapping  her 
round  so  that  the  rest  of  the  world  was  kept  away 
and  she  was  still  with  him,  though  she  could  not 
see  him  nor  hear  his  voice.  For  her  alone  he  ex- 
isted now.  Soon  the  rest  who  had  wondered  and 
praised  and  blamed  and  gossipped  forgot  about 
him  ;  they  had  no  more  attention  to  give  him,  no 
more  flattery,  no  more  allegiance.  For  them  he 
had  ceased  to  exist.  Only  for  her  he  went  on  exist- 


DEATH  DEFIED.  353 

ing  still,  nay,  it  seemed  that  it  was  through  her  that 
he  clung  to  the  life  he  had  loved,  and  was  even  now 
not  dead  because  he  lived  in  and  through  her.  And 
sometimes — she  shivered  in  her  broken  sleep,  for 
she  had  not  the  love  which  would  have  made  the 
dream  all  joy — he  became  more  than  a  spirit  or  an 
impalpable  presence  ;  he  was  again  almost  corporeal, 
almost  to  be  felt  and  touched,  almost  a  living  man. 
Shrinking  and  fearing,  yet  she  was  glad ;  she  wel- 
comed his  exemption  from  the  grave  and  abetted 
him  in  his  rebellion  against  death  ;  and  for  her  that 
restless  spirit  almost  clothed  itself  again  in  flesh. 

She  sat  up  with  a  great  start  and  a  low  cry.  Her 
hand  had  been  hanging  over  the  arm  of  the  chair, 
it  had  grown  cold ;  now  it  was  held  in  another  cold 
hand,  and  it  was  raised.  Awake  but  thinking  she 
still  dreamed,  she  waited  in  mingled  fear  and 
anticipation.  Cold  lips  pressed  her  hand.  She 
dreamed  then,  and  in  her  dream  he  came  from  the 
grave  to  kiss  her  hand.  He  came  not  only  back  to 
the  world  where  he  had  triumphed,  he  came  also  to 
the  woman  he  had  loved,  who  had  not  loved  him. 
Again  the  kiss  came  cold  on  her  hand.  She  fell  back 
with  a  sudden  sob,  not  knowing  whether  terror  or 
repulsion  or  joy,  held  greater  sway  in  her.  The 
kisses  covered  her  hand.  Ah,  the  marvel !  They 
grew  living,  they  were  warm  now  and  passionate. 
This  was  not  a  dead  man's  kiss.  With  a  second  cry 
she  turned  her  head.  Quisant£  himself  knelt  by  her, 
kissing  her  hand.  His  eyes  rose  to  hers,  and  she 
cried,  "  It  is  you  !  You're  not  dead  !  Thank  God, 
thank  God  ! " 
23 


354  QUISANT£. 

His  eyes  were  gleaming  in  the  strong  excitement 
of  his  heart ;  he  knew  how  he  had  found  her. 

"  No,  not  dead,  not  dead  yet,"  he  said.  "  But  by 
heaven,  when  I  am  dead,  I  won't  leave  you.  I  can't 
leave  you.  As  I  kiss  your  hand  now,  so  will  I  kiss 
it  always,  and  with  my  soul  I  will  worship  you.  But 
neither  now  nor  then  will  I  kiss  your  lips." 

"  You  won't  kiss  my  lips  ?  " 

"  No.  They  have  lied  for  me ;  I  won't  stain  them 
any  more." 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him.  Then  she 
caught  her  hand  away  and  flung  her  arms  round  his 
neck.  She  kissed  him  on  his  lips,  crying,  "  For  good 
or  evil,  for  good  or  evil,  but  always,  always,  always !  " 
Then  she  drew  away,  and,  with  her  arms  still  round 
his  neck,  she  broke  into  her  low  laugh  :  "  Oh,  but 
how  like  you  to  make  that  little  speech  about  my 
lips ! " 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE   QUIET  LIFE  TOMORROW. 

OLD  Miss  Quisantd  was  not  as  sympathetic  as 
might  have  been  wished.  She  acquiesced  indeed 
(as  who  would  not?)  in  the  new  programme  of  at 
least  a  year's  complete  rest ;  she  offered  to  find  funds 
—happily  it  was  not  necessary,  since  the  sale  of  some 
Alethea  shares  at  a  handsome  premium  supplied 
them  ;  she  admitted  that  May  had  done  her  duty 
in  persuading  her  husband  to  yield  a  limited  obe- 
dience to  his  doctors'  orders.  But  she  looked  disap- 
pointed, uninterested,  dull ;  she  awoke  only  for  a 
sparkle  of  malice,  when  she  remarked  how  happy 
they  would  be  together  in  the  country,  with  nothing 
to  disturb  them,  nothing  but  just  their  two  selves. 

"  Not  as  unhappy  as  you  think,"  said  May,  smiling. 

"  All  nonsense,  I  call  it,"  pursued  the  old  lady. 
"  Sandro  knew  best ;  now  you've  put  notions  into  his 
head.  Oh,  I  daresay  you  were  bound  to,  my  dear." 

"  How  can  you  be  so  blind  ?  "  murmured  May. 
Aunt  Maria  shook  her  head  derisively  ;  she  was  not 
blind,  it  was  the  wife  and  the  doctors  who  were  blind. 
"  You're  not  to  say  that  sort  of  thing  to  Alexander," 
May  went  on  imperiously.  Aunt  Maria  put  her  head 
on  one  side  and  smiled  sardonically. 

"  You  used  to  agree  with  me,"  she  said.  "  Has 
the  Mildmay  woman  been  here  again  ?  " 

355 


356  QUISANTE. 

"  No  ;  she's  at  home.  We  shall  see  her  perhaps  at 
Henstead." 

"  Henstead  !  What  are  you  going  there  for?  " 
"And  you  said  you  knew  Alexander!  "  laughed 
May.  "  You  don't  suppose  he's  going  into  retire- 
ment without  a  display  of  fireworks  ?  The  Hen- 
stead  speech  is  to  be  made.  Then  we  put  up  the 
shutters — for  a  year  at  least,  as  I  say." 

"  That's  something.     Is  he  interested  in  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  working  all  day.     But  he's  wonderfully 

well.     I've  never  seen  him  better."     She  hesitated 

and  laughed  a  little.     "  How  shall  we  ever  stick  to 

our  year?  "she  asked.     "He  means  it  now  and   I 

mean  it.     But " 

"  You  won't  do  it,"  said  Aunt  Maria  emphatically. 
"  Nobody  could  keep  Sandro  quiet  for  a  year  !  " 
"  Don't  tell  me  that.     We're  going  to  try." 
"  Oh,    I  won't  interfere,  my   dear.      Try   away. 
After  all  he'll  be  young  still,  and  they  won't  forget 
him  in  a  year.     Or  if  they  do,  he'll  soon  make  them 
remember  him  again." 

The  buoyant  confidence  was  hard  to  resist.  It 
seemed  to  grow  greater  in  face  of  all  reason,  and 
more  and  more  to  fill  the  old  woman's  mind  as  she 
herself  descended  towards  the  grave  which  she 
scorned  as  a  possibility  for  Sandro.  For  now  she 
was  very  small  and  frail,  thin  and  yellow  ;  she  too, 
like  her  nephew,  seemed  to  hold  on  to  life  rather 
because  she  chose  of  her  arbitrary  will,  than  thanks 
to  any  physical  justification  that  she  could  adduce. 
Could  Quisante  not  only  make  himself  live  but  make 
Aunt  Maria  live  too  ?  Full  of  the  influence  of  that 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  TO-MORROW       357 

last  great  moment,  May,  laughing  at  herself,  yet 
hesitated  to  answer  "  No."  But  the  year  was  to  be 
tried,  lest,  if  die  he  must,  he  should  die  to  please  her 
or  thinking  that  she  wanted  him  to  die.  He  did  not 
think  now  that  she  wanted  that ;  she  was  happier 
with  him  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  She  had 
found  a  new  indulgence  for  him,  even  for  what  she 
had  hated  in  him.  Justice  would  have  turned  to 
harshness,  clearness  of  vision  to  a  Pharisaic  strict- 
ness, had  she  not  found  indulgence  for  the  man  who 
had  crept  back  to  kiss  her  hand.  She  was  very  in- 
dulgent towards  him,  and  he  seemed  happy,  save 
that  now  and  then  he  looked  at  her  wistfully,  and 
began  to  fall  into  the  way  of  reminding  her  of  past 
occasions  when  he  had  shone  and  she  admired,  ask- 
ing whether  she  remembered  this  and  that.  He 
dropped  hints  too  that  the  Henstead  speech  was  to 
be  memorable.  She  was  a  little  afraid  that  already 
he  was  feeling  indulgence  insufficient  and  mere  kind- 
ness, or  indeed  mere  affection,  not  the  great  thing 
that  he  asked  of  her,  just  as  peace  and  quiet,  or  pic- 
tures, books,  and  hills,  were  not  the  things  that  he 
asked  of  life.  If  this  were  so,  the  compromise  she 
had  brought  him  to  consent  to  was  precarious ;  it 
was,  as  she  had  hinted  to  Aunt  Maria,  doubtful 
whether  they  could  stick  to  their  year. 

There  was  another  question  in  her  mind,  not  less 
persistent,  not  less  troubling.  Perhaps  the  greater 
harmony  between  them,  which  had  induced  and  ena- 
bled her  to  obtain  that  consent  from  him,  was  as 
precarious  as  the  compromise  itself  ;  it  too  was  liable 
to  be  overthrown  by  a  return  of  Quisant£'s  old  self, 


358  QUISANT£. 

or  at  least  of  that  side  of  him  which  was  for  the  time 
hidden.  The  temptation  to  work  would  overthrow 
the  compromise,  the  temptation  to  win  might  again 
produce  action  in  him  and  impose  action  on  her 
which  would  bring  death  to  their  newly-achieved  har- 
mony, even  as  exertion  would  to  his  worn-out  body. 
The  great  speech,  the  last  speech,  was  to  be  on 
Wednesday.  They  arrived  in  Henstead  on  Tuesday 
morning  and  were  plunged  at  once  into  a  turmoil  of 
business.  There  was  a  luncheon,  a  deputation,  a 
meeting  of  the  party  association ;  Japhet  Williams 
had  half  a  dozen  difficulties,  and  old  Foster  as  many 
bits  of  shrewd  counsel.  Over  all  and  through  all 
was  the  air  of  congratulation,  of  relief  from  the  fear 
of  losing  Quisant£,  of  enthusiastic  applause  for  his 
magnificently  courageous  struggle  against  illness 
and  its  triumphant  issue.  When  May  hinted  at  a 
period  of  rest — the  full  extent  of  it  was  not  dis- 
closed— Foster  nodded  tolerantly,  Japhet  said  times 
were  critical,  and  the  rest  declared  that  they  would 
not  flog  a  willing  horse,  but  knew  that  Mr.  Quisante" 
would  do  his  duty.  Unquestionably  Henstead's 
effect  was  bad,  both  for  the  compromise  and  for 
Quisant£.  Minute  by  minute  May  saw  how  the  old 
fascination  grew  on  him,  how  more  and  more  he  for- 
got that  this  was  to  be  the  last  effort,  that  it  was  an 
end,  not  a  beginning.  He  gave  pledges  of  action, 
he  would  not  positively  decline  engagements,  he 
talked  as  though  he  would  be  in  his  place  in  Parlia- 
ment throughout  the  session.  While  doing  all  this 
he  avoided  meeting  her  eye ;  he  would  have 
found  nothing  worse  than  pity  touched  with  amuse- 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  TO-MORROW.      359 

ment.  But  he  kept  declaring  to  her,  when  they  had 
a  chance  of  being  alone,  that  he  was  loyal  to  their 
compact.  "  Though  it's  pretty  hard,"  he  added 
with  a  renewal  of  his  bitterness  against  the  fate 
that  constrained  him. 

"  We  ought  never  to  have  come,"  she  said.  "  It 
makes  it  worse.  I  wish  we  hadn't. ' 

"  Wait  till  you've  heard  me  to-morrow  night,"  he 
whispered,  pressing  her  hand  and  looking  into  her 
eyes  with  the  glee  of  anticipated  triumph. 

He  was  going  to  make  a  great  speech,  she  knew 
that  very  well ;  there  were  all  the  signs  about  him, 
the  glee,  the  pride,  the  occasional  absence  of  mind, 
the  frequent  appeal  for  sympathy,  the  need  of  a  con- 
fidence to  answer  and  confirm  his  own.  Such  a 
mood,  in  spite  of  its  element  of  childishness,  was  yet 
a  good  one  with  him.  It  raised  him  above  pettiness 
and  made  him  impatient  of  old  Foster's  cunning 
little  devices  for  capturing  an  enemy  or  confirming 
the  allegiance  of  a  doubtful  friend.  He  had  for  the 
time  forgotten  himself  in  his  work,  the  position  in 
what  he  meant  to  do  with  it ;  he  would  have  de- 
livered that  speech  now  if  the  price  had  been  the 
loss  of  his  seat ;  whatever  the  price  was,  that  speech 
now  would  have  its  way,  all  of  it,  whole  and  unim- 
paired, even  the  passage  on  which  Foster  was  con- 
sulted with  the  result  that  its  suppression  was  de- 
clared imperative  in  view  of  Japhet  Williams'  feel- 
ings. "  Damn  Japhet  Williams,"  said  Quisante1  with 
a  laugh,  and  Quisant6's  wife  found  herself  wishing 
that  he  would  "  damn  "  a  few  more  men  and  things. 
It  was  just  the  habit  that  he  wanted,  just  the  thing 


360  QUISANTE". 

that  Marchmont  and  Dick  Benyon  and  men  like 
them  had.  Oh,  if  he  could  win  and  keep  it ! 

"  He  must  consider  local  feeling,"  said  old  Foster, 
pinching  a  fat  chin  in  fear  and  doubt. 

"  No,  he  needn't,  no,  he  needn't  now,"  she  cried. 
"  He'll  carry  it  with  him,  whatever  he  does  now. 
Don't  you  see  ?  He  can  take  them  all  with  him  now. 
Wait  till  you've  heard  him  to-morrow  night !  " 

Here  was  happiness  for  her  and  for  him,  but 
where  else  ?  Not  in  the  compromise,  not  in  the 
year  of  quiet.  It  seemed  to  be  for  this  that  they 
had  come  together,  in  this  that  they  could  help  one 
another,  feel  with  one  another,  be  really  at  one. 
And  this  could  not  be.  The  tears  stood  in  May 
Quisant£'s  eyes  as  she  turned  away  from  the  pleas- 
ant shrewd  old  schemer ;  his  picture  should  stand 
no  more  on  the  mantelpiece.  But  now  it  seemed 
again  strange  and  incredible  that  this,  the  great 
career,  could  not  be ;  Aunt  Maria's  was  the  creed 
for  a  time  like  this. 

The  great  night  came,  and  a  great  crowd  in  the 
Corn  Exchange.  Old  Foster  was  in  the  chair  and 
the  place  seemed  full  of  familiar  faces ;  the  butcher 
who  was  troubled  about  slaughter-houses  sat  side 
by  side  with  the  man  who  was  uneasy  about  his 
deceased  wife's  sister;  Japhet  Williams  was  on  the 
platform  and  his  men  sat  in  close  ranks  at  the  back 
of  the  hall,  they  and  Dunn's  contingent  hard-by 
smoking  their  pipes  as  the  custom  was  at  Henstead. 
There  were  other  faces,-  not  so  usual ;  for  far  away, 
in  a  purposely  chosen  obscurity,  May  saw  Weston 
Marchmont  and  the  Dean  of  St.  Neot's.  The  Mild- 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  TO-MORROW.      361 

mays  themselves  could  not  be  present,  but  these  two 
had  come  over  from  Moors  End  and  sat  there  now, 
the  Dean  beaming  in  anticipation  of  a  treat,  March- 
mont  with  a  rather  supercilious  smile  and  an  air  of 
weariness.  May  could  not  catch  their  eyes  but  she 
felt  glad  to  have  them  there  ;  it  was  always  pleasant 
to  her  that  her  friends  should  see  Quisant6  when  he 
was  at  his  best,  and  he  was  going  to  be  at  his  best 
to-night. 

"  We  are  rejoiced  to  welcome  our  Member  back 
among  us  in  good  health  and  strength  again,"  old 
Foster  began,  quite  in  the  Aunt  Maria  style,  and  he 
went  on  to  describe  the  grief  caused  by  Quisant£'s 
illness  and  the  joy  now  felt  at  the  prospect  of  his 
being  able  to  render  services  to  his  Queen,  his  coun- 
try, and  his  constituency  no  less  long  than  valuable 
and  brilliant.  Quisant6  listened  with  a  smile,  gently 
tapping  the  table  with  his  fingers.  May  turned  from 
him  to  seek  again  her  friends'  faces  in  the  hall ;  this 
time  she  met  their  gaze  ;  they  were  both  looking  at 
her  with  pitying  eyes ;  the  instant  they  saw  her 
glance,  they  avoided  it.  What  did  that  mean  ?  It 
meant  that  they  were  not  of  Aunt  Maria's  party. 
The  kindly  compassionate  look  of  those  two  men 
went  to  her  heart ;  it  brought  back  reality  and  pierced 
through  the  pretence,  the  grand  pretence,  which 
everybody,  herself  included,  had  been  weaving.  An 
impulse  of  fear  laid  hold  of  her ;  involuntarily  she 
put  out  her  hand  towards  Foster  who  had  just  finished 
his  speech  and  was  sitting  down.  She  meant  to  tell 
him  to  stop  the  meeting,  to  send  the  people  home, 
to  help  her  to  persuade  Quisante  to  go  back  to  the 


362  QUISANTF!. 

hotel  and  not  to  speak.  Foster  looked  round  to  see 
what  she  wanted,  but  at  the  moment  Quisante  was 
already  on  his  feet.  "  It's  nothing,"  May  whispered, 
withdrawing  her  hand.  It  was  too  late  now,  the 
thing  must  go  forward  now,  whatever  the  end  of  it 
might  be,  whatever  the  friendly  pity  of  those  eyes 
might  seem  to  say.  To-morrow  quiet  would  begin ; 
but  she  had  a  new,  strange,  intense  terror  of  to-night. 
This  feeling  lasted  through  the  early  part  of  Qui- 
sante's  speech,  when  he  was  still  in  a  quiet  vein  and 
showed  some  signs  of  physical  weakness.  But  as  he 
went  on  it  vanished  and  in  its  place  came  the  old 
faith  and  the  old  illusion.  For  he  gathered  force,  he 
put  out  his  strength,  he  exhaled  vitality.  Again  she 
sought  her  friends'  faces  and  marked  with  joy  and 
triumph  that  their  eyes  were  now  set  on  the  speaker 
and  their  attention  held  firmly,  as  the  fine  resonant 
voice  filled  the  building  and  seemed  to  resent  the 
confinement  of  its  walls,  or  even  more  when  a  whis- 
per, heard  only  by  a  miracle  as  she  thought,  thrilled 
even  the  most  distant  listener.  The  speech  was  being 
all  that  it  had  been  going  to  be,  his  confidence  and 
hers  were  to  be  justified.  The  pronouncement  that 
the  country  waited  for  was  coming,  the  fighting  men 
were  to  get  the  lead  they  wanted,  the  attack  was 
sounded,  the  battle  was  being  opened  to  the  sound 
of  a  trumpet-call.  May  leant  forward,  listening.  A 
period  reached  its  close,  and  applause  delayed  the 
beginning  of  the  next.  Quisant6  glanced  round  and 
saw  his  wife  ;  their  eyes  met ;  a  slow  smile  came  on 
his  lips,  a  smile  of  great  delight.  Once  more  her 
heart  beat  and  her  eyes  gleamed  for  him,  once  more 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  TO-MORROW.      363 

she  would  be  no  man's  if  she  could  not  be  his.  His 
air  was  gay  and  his  face  joyful  as,  the  next  minute, 
he  threw  himself  into  a  flood  of  eloquence  where 
indignation  mingled  with  ridicule ;  he  made  men 
doubt  whether  they  must  laugh  or  fight.  Now  he 
had  all  that  he  desired  ;  men  hung  on  his  words,  and 
she  sat  by,  and  saw,  and  felt,  and  shared. 

At  the  next  pause,  when  the  cheering  again  im- 
posed a  momentary  silence,  the  Dean  turned  to 
Marchmont,  raising  his  hands  and  dropping  them 
again. 

"  Yes,  he  can  do  it,"  said  Marchmont  in  a  curi- 
ous tone  ;  envy  and  scorn  and  admiration  all  seemed 
to  find  expression. 

"  Look  at  her !  "  whispered  the  Dean,  but  this  time 
Marchmont  made  no  answer.  He  had  been  looking 
at  her,  and  knew  now  why  she  had  tied  her  life  to 
Alexander  Quisante's. 

"  If  I  could  do  it  like  that  I  couldn't  stop  doing 
it,"  said  the  Dean. 

"He  never  will  as  long  as  he  lives,"  answered 
Marchmont  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

"But  he  won't  live?"  whispered  the  Dean. 
"  You  mean  that  ?  " 

The  applause  ended  ;  there  was  no  need  for  March- 
mont to  answer,  even  if  he  could  have  found 
an  answer.  Quisant£  took  up  his  work  again. 
He  was  near  the  end  now,  an  hour  and  a  quarter 
had  passed.  May's  eyes  never  left  him ;  he  was 
going  to  get  through,  she  thought,  and  she  had  no 
thought  now  of  the  compromise  or  the  year  of  quiet, 
no  thought  except  of  his  triumph  that  to-morrow 


364  QUISANT£. 

would  ring  through  the  land.  He  paused  an  instant, 
whether  in  faltering  or  for  effect  she  could  not  tell, 
and  then  began  his  peroration.  It  was  short,  but 
he  gave  every  word  slowly,  apart,  as  it  were  in  a 
place  of  its  own,  in  the  sure  and  superb  confidence 
that  every  word  had  its  own  office,  its  own  weight, 
and  its  own  effect.  But  before  he  ended  there  came 
one  interruption.  Suddenly,  as  though  moved  by 
an  impulse  foreign  to  himself,  old  Foster  pushed 
back  his  chair  and  rose  to  his  feet  ;  after  an  instant 
the  whole  audience  imitated  him.  Quisant£  paused 
and  looked  round ;  again  he  smiled  ;  then,  taking  a 
step  forward  to  clear  himself  of  those  who  sur- 
rounded him,  he  went  on.  Thus  he  ended  his 
speech,  he  standing,  to  men  and  women  one  and  all 
standing  about  and  before  him. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  thing,"  whispered  the  Dean 
of  St.  Neot's.  But  his  words  were  lost  in  the  cheers, 
and  Weston  Marchmont's  "  Bravo "  rang  out  so 
loud  that  May  Quisante  heard  it  on  the  platform 
and  bent  forward  to  kiss  her  hand  to  him. 

In  the  tea-room,  to  which  all  the  important  per- 
sons withdrew  after  the  meeting,  festivity  reigned. 
Quisant6  was  surrounded  by  admirers,  busy  listen- 
ing to  compliments  and  congratulations,  and 
receiving  the  advice  of  the  local  wise  men.  May 
did  not  attempt  to  get  near  him,  but  surrendered 
herself  to  a  like  process.  Old  Foster  came  up  to 
her  and  shook  hands,  saying,  "  I'm  proud  to  have 
had  a  hand  in  making  Mr.  Quisant6  member  for 
Henstead.  You  were  right  too ;  he  can  say  what 
he  likes  now." 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  TO-MORROW.      365 

Then  came  Japhet  Williams'  thin  voice.  "  I  hope 
it  won't  be  many  days  before  Mr.  Quisant6  tells  the 
House  of  Commons  what  he's  told  us  to-night." 

Should  she  say  that  he  would  not  tell  anything  to 
the  House  of  Commons  for  many  days,  probably 
not  ever,  that  his  voice  would  not  be  heard  there  ? 
They  would  not  believe  her,  she  hardly  would 
believe  herself.  In  that  hour  illness  and  retirement 
seemed  dim  and  distant,  unreal  and  a  little  ludicrous. 
She  abandoned  herself  to  the  temptation  pressed 
upon  her  and  talked  as  though  her  husband  were  to 
lead  all  through  the  campaign  that  he  had  opened. 

"  I  never  saw  him  looking  better  in  my  life,"  said 
Foster. 

As  he  spoke  a  short  thick-set  man  with  grey  hair 
pushed  by  him.  Old  Foster  caught  him  by  the 
wrist,  crying  with  a  laugh,  "  Why,  Doctor,  what  are 
you  doing  here  ?  You're  one  of  the  enemy  !  " 

"  I  came  to  hear  the  speech." 

"  A  good  'un,  eh  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  the  speech.  Take  me  over  to  Mr. 
Quisante" — now,  directly." 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  He  must  go  home." 

"  Go  home?     Nonsense.     He's  all  right." 

Dr.  Tillman  wrenched  his  hand  away,  shook  his 
head  scornfully,  and  started  across  the  room  towards 
where  Quisante"  was.  May  laid  her  hand  on  old 
Foster's  arm. 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  Does  he  think  my  husband 
ill?" 

"  I  don't  know.     It's  all  nonsense." 


366  QUISANT£. 

Another  voice  broke  in. 

"A  triumph,  Lady  May,  a  triumph  indeed  !" 

She  turned  to  find  the  Dean  and  Marchmont  close 
behind  her,  and  the  Dean  holding  out  his  hand  as 
he  spoke. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said  hurriedly  and  uncomfortably. 
"  It  was  fine,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  It  was  magnificent,"  said  Marchmont. 

"  Thanks,  thanks."  Her  tone  was  still  hurried, 
absent,  ungracious.  The  two  looked  at  her  in  sur- 
prise. Where  was  the  radiance  of  triumph  that  had 
lit  up  her  face  as  she  signalled  to  them  from  the  plat- 
form ?  They  had  expected  to  find  her  full  of  the 
speech  and  had  been  prepared  to  give  her  joy  by 
the  warmth  and  sincerity  of  their  praise. 

"What's  the  matter?  "  whispered  Marchmont. 

"  Do  you  see  that  short  man,  the  one  with  grey 
hair,  trying  to  get  near  Alexander?  It's  the  doctor 
— Dr.  Tillman.  He  can't  get  near  Alexander." 

"  What  does  he  want?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  He  thinks  he  ought  to  go  home. 
He  thinks — Ah,  now  he's  getting  to  him  !  Look  ! 
He's  speaking  to  him  now ! " 

They  saw  the  doctor  come  up  to  Quisante"  and 
Quisante"  smile  as  he  waited  for  the  visitor  to  intro- 
duce himself.  The  doctor  began  to  speak  quickly 
and  energetically.  "  Oh,  thank  you  very  much,  but 
I'm  all  right,"  came  suddenly  in  loud  clear  tones 
from  Quisante".  The  doctor  spoke  again.  Quisante" 
shook  his  head,  laughing  merrily.  Marchmont 
looked  at  May ;  her  eyes  were  on  her  husband  and 
they  were  full  of  fear.  "  I'd  forgotten,"  he  heard 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  TO-MORROW.      367 

her  murmur.  She  turned  to  him  with  an  imploring 
air.  "  He  won't  listen,"  she  said. 

A  burst  of  laughter  came  from  Quisante"'s  group  ; 
he  had  made  some  joke  and  they  all  applauded  him. 
Tillman  stood  for  a  moment  longer  before  him,  then 
gave  a  queer  jerk  of  his  head,  and  turned  sharp 
round  on  his  heel.  He  came  back  towards  where 
she  stood.  She  took  a  step  forward  and  thus  crossed 
his  path,  Marchmont  and  the  Dean  standing  on 
either  side  of  her. 

"  You  remember  me,  Dr.  Tillman  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  I'm  Mr.  Quisant6's  wife,  you  know." 

He  stood  still,  looking  at  her  angrily  from  under 
his  bushy  eyebrows. 

"  Take  him  home  then,"  he  said  sharply.  "  It 
was  madness  to  let  him  come  here  at  all.  You're 
flying  in  the  face  of  the  advice  you've  had.  Oh,  I 
know  about  it.  Let  me  tell  you,  you're  very  lucky 
to  have  got  through  so  far." 

"  We — we're  through  all  right  now,"  she  said. 

"  Are  you  ?  I  hope  so.  The  man's  in  a  high 
state  of  excitement  now,  and  high  states  of  excite- 
ment aren't  good  for  him."  He  paused  and  added 
impatiently,  "  Have  you  no  influence  over  him  ? 
Can  none  of  you  do  anything  with  him  ?  " 

"  He  won't  like  it  if  I  go  to  him,"  May  whispered. 

"  I'll  go,"  said  the  Dean,  stepping  forward. 

"  Yes,"  said  Tillman,  "  go  and  tell  him  Lady  May 
Quisant6  wants  him." 

The  Dean  started  off  on  his  errand.  The  doctor's 
manner  grew  a  little  gentler. 

"  You  couldn't  be  expected  to  know,"  he  said. 


368  QUISANT£. 

"  But  in  a  thing  like  this  you  mustn't  think  he's  all 
right  because  he  looks  all  right.  He'll  look  his  best 
just  at  the  time  when  there's  most — well,  when  he 
isn't.  I  hope  he's  going  to  keep  quiet  after  this  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes.  At  least  we've  arranged  that.  Wes- 
ton,  do  go  and  bring  him  to  me." 

"  Look,  he's  coming  now  with  the  Dean." 

Quisante's  group  opened,  and  he  began  to  move 
towards  them.  But  at  every  step  somebody  stopped 
him,  to  shake  hands  and  to  say  a  few  words  of  thanks 
or  praise.  The  Dean  kept  urging  him  on  gently, 
but  he  would  not  be  hurried. 

"  Now  take  him  straight  home,"  said  Tillman. 
"  Good-night/'  And  hardly  waiting  for  May's  bow  he 
turned  away  and  disappeared  among  the  throng  that 
was  making  for  the  door. 

Quisante,  at  last  escaping  from  his  admirers,  came 
up  to  his  wife.  His  eyes  were  very  bright,  and  he 
ran  to  her,  holding  out  both  his  hands.  She  put 
hers  in  his  and  said,  "  We  must  go  home.  You'll 
be  worn  out." 

"  Worn  out  ?  Not  I  !  But  you  look  worn  out. 
Come  along.  Ah,  Marchmont,  this  is  a  compliment 
indeed." 

They  were  almost  alone  in  the  room  now.  May 
took  her  husband's  arm  and  they  walked  thus  to- 
gether. 

"  Are  you  pleased  ?  "  he  whispered. 

"  Am  I  pleased ! "  she  said  with  the  laugh  he 
knew  and  an  upward  glance  of  her  eyes.  Quisant£ 
himself  laughed  and  drew  himself  to  his  full  height, 
carrying  his  head  defiantly.  For  though  he  sought 


THE  QUIET  LIFE  TO-MORROW.      369 

and  loved  to  please  all,  it  was  pleasing  her  that  had 
been  foremost  in  his  mind  that  night.  He  had  re- 
membered the  boast  he  made  on  Duty  Hill ;  now  it 
was  justified,  and  he  had  once  again  tasted  his 
sweetest  pleasure. 

They  had  to  wait  in  an  ante-room  while  their  car- 
riage was  sent  for.  Here  the  Dean  and  Marchmont 
joined  them  again.  They  were  there  when  old 
Foster  rushed  in  in  great  excitement. 

"  The  whole  town's  in  the  square,"  he  cried. 
"  There's  never  been  anything  like  it  in  Henstead. 
You'll  say  just  a  word  to  them  from  the  steps,  sir? 
Only  a  word !  They're  all  waiting  there  for  you. 
You'll  say  just  a  word  ?  I'll  be  back  in  an  instant." 
And  he  bustled  out  again. 

Quisante"  walked  across  to  a  window  that  opened 
on  to  the  Market  Square.  He  looked  out,  then 
turned  and  beckoned  to  his  wife.  The  whole  town 
seemed  to  be  in  the  square,  as  Foster  said,  and  the 
people  caught  sight  of  him  as  he  stood  in  the  window 
with  the  lighted  room  behind  him.  They  broke  into 
loud  cheering.  Quisante  bowed  to  them.  Then  a 
sudden  short  shiver  seemed  to  run  through  him  ;  he 
put  his  hand  first  to  his  side,  then  to  his  head. 

"  I  feel  queer,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "  I  think  I — 
I  won't — I  won't  speak  any  more.  I  feel  so — so 
queer."  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  now,  and  his 
on  hers.  He  smiled  and  tapped  his  forehead  lightly 
with  his  hand.  "  It's  nothing,"  he  said.  "  You  were 
pleased,  weren't  you,  to-night  ?  "  Again  he  put  his 
hands  in  hers.  She  found  no  word  to  say  and  they 
stood  like  this  for  a  moment.  The  cheers  ceased, 
24 


370  QUISANT£. 

the  crowd  outside  was  puzzled.  Marchmont  jumped 
up  from  his  chair  and  walked  forward  hastily. 

"  Anything  wrong  ?  "  he  asked. 

Neither  heeded  him.  May's  eyes  were  set  in  ter- 
ror on  her  husband's  face ;  for  now  she  was  hold- 
ing him  up  by  the  power  of  her  hands  gripped  in 
his;  without  them  he  would  fall.  Nay,  he  would 
fall  now  ! 

He  spoke  in  a  low  thick  voice.  "  It's  come,"  he 
said,  "  it's  come."  And  he  sank  back  into  Weston 
Marchmont's  arms,  his  wife  letting  go  his  hands  and 
standing  rigid. 

Old  Foster  ran  in  again,  calling,  "  Are  you  ready, 
sir  ?  "  He  found  his  answer.  Alexander  Quisant£ 
would  speak  no  more  in  Henstead.  He  was  leaning 
against  Marchmont,  breathing  heavily  and  with  sore 
difficulty.  May  went  to  him ;  she  was  very  white 
and  very  calm  ;  she  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  I— I— I  spoke  well  ?  "  he  muttered.  "  Didn't 
I?" 

"  Very  very  finely,  Alexander." 

"  They  were — were  all  wrong  in  saying  I  couldn't 
do  it,"  he  murmured.  He  shivered  again  and  then 
was  still.  The  Dean  had  brought  a  chair  and  they 
put  him  in  it.  But  he  moved  no  more.  May  looked 
at  old  Foster  who  stood  by,  his  face  wrung  with  help- 
less distress  and  consternation. 

"  We've  killed  him  among  us,  I  and  you  and  the 
people  out  there,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  RELICT. 

"  YES,  I  asked  her,"  said  Weston  Marchmont, 
"  but — Well,  I  don't  think  she'd  mind  you  reading 
her  letter,  and  I  should  rather  like  you  to."  He 
flung  it  across  the  table  to  Dick  Benyon.  "  I  half 
see  what  she  means,"  said  he,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

Dick  took  the  letter  with  an  impatient  frown.  "  I 
don't,"  he  said,  as  he  settled  himself  to  read  it. 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  I  have  thought  it  over,  many 
times,  in  many  different  moods,  and  in  all  of  them 
I  have  always  wanted  to  do  what  you  ask.  Not  for 
your  sake,  not  because  you  ask  me,  but  for  my  own. 
I  think  I  should  be  very  happy,  and  as  you  know  I 
have  never  yet  been  very  happy.  I  wasn't  while  my 
husband  was  alive.  Imagine  my  finding  side  by  side 
in  his  desk  the  doctor's  letter  saying  it  was  certain 
death  to  go  to  Henstead  and  that  report  of  Professor 
Maturin's  which  he  suppressed  and  told  me  had  been 
destroyed.  That  brought  him  back  to  me  just  as 
he  was.  With  you  I  think  I  should  be  happy.  I 
should  never  be  afraid,  I  should  never  be  ashamed. 
What  fear  and  what  shame  I  used  to  feel !  I  write 
very  openly  to  you  about  myself  and  about  him ;  if 
I  were  answering  as  you  wish,  I  would  not  say  a 


372  QUISANTE. 

word  against  him.  But  I  can't.  That's  just  the 
feeling.  You  tell  me  I  am  free,  that  two  years  have 
gone  by,  that  I  might  find  a  new  life  for  myself,  that 
you  love  me.  I  know  it  all,  but  except  the  last  none 
of  it  sounds  true.  You  know  that  once  I  thought 
about  being  free  and  that  then  you  were  in  my 
thoughts.  Who  should  be,  if  you  were  not?  Ex- 
cept him  and  you  I  have  never  thought  of  any  man. 
And  I -want  to  come  to  you  now.  He  is  too  strong 
for  me.  Is  it  really  two  years  ago?  Surely  not!  I 
seem  still  to  hear  his  speech,  and  still  to  see  him  fall 
into  your  arms.  I  should  always  hear  him,  and 
always  see  that.  I'm  afraid  you  won't  understand 
me,  least  of  all  when  I  say  I  don't  feel  sure  that  I 
want  him  back.  That  would  mean  the  fear  and  the 
shame  again.  But  he  was  so  marvellous.  How 
right  he  was !  They  followed  the  lead  he  gave 
them  at  Henstead  ;  and  even  you,  dear  recluse,  know 
that  there  was  a  change  of  Government  last  year. 
And  I  am  quite  rich  out  of  the  Alethea.  For  he 
was  right  and  the  poor  Professor,  who  was  supposed 
to  know  all  about  it,  was  absolutely,  utterly,  hope- 
lessly wrong.  And  the  Crusade's  come  to  nothing, 
and — and  so  on. 

I  wish  I  was  convincing  you  ;  but  I  never  did. 
You  didn't  understand  why  I  married  him,  why  in 
face  of  everything  I  behaved  pretty  well  to  him, 
why  his  death  left  everything  blank  to  me.  Nobody 
quite  understood,  except  old  Aunt  Maria  who  just 
quietly  died  as  soon  as  he  was  gone.  And  you'll 
understand  me  no  better  now.  I  resent  the  way  the 
world  forgets  him.  There  seems  nothing  of  him 


A  RELICT.  373 

left.  My  little  girl  is  all  Gaston ;  she  lives  with 
Gastons,  she  has  the  Gaston  face  and  the  Gaston 
ways.  She's  not  a  bit  Quisant6 ;  she's  nothing  of 
him,  nothing  that  he  has  left  behind.  If  we'd  had 
a  son,  a  boy  like  him,  I  might  feel  differently.  But, 
as  it  is,  what's  left  ?  Only  me.  I  am  left,  and  I  am 
not  altogether  a  Gaston  now,  though  it's  the  Gaston 
and  nothing  else  that  you  like.  No,  I'm  not  all 
Gaston  now.  I've  become  Quisant6  in  part — not  in 
every  way,  or  I  shouldn't  have  felt  as  I  did  when  I 
found  the  Professor's  report.  But  he  has  laid  hold 
of  me,  and  he  doesn't  let  go.  I  can't  help  thinking 
that  he  needn't  have  died  except  on  my  account. 
You  feel  sore  that  I  don't  love  you,  not  as  you  want 
me  to.  He  was  sore  too  because  I  didn't  love  him ; 
and  since  he  couldn't  make  me  love  him,  he  had 
to  make  me  wonder  at  him ;  he  was  doing  that  when 
he  died.  So  I  feel  that  I  can't  do  anything  to  blot 
him  out,  and  that  I  must  stay  Quisant£,  somebody 
bearing  his  name,  representing  him,  keeping  him  in 
a  way  alive,  being  still  his  and  not  anybody  else's. 

For  I  still  feel  his  and  I  still  feel  him  alive.  You 
can  love  people,  and  then  forget  them,  and  love 
somebody  else ;  or  love  somebody  else  without  for- 
getting. Love  is  simple  and  gentle  and,  I  suppose, 
gives  way.  Alexander  doesn't  give  way.  I  shall 
hurt  you  now,  I'm  afraid,  but  I  must  say  it.  After 
him  there  can  be  no  other  man  forme.  I  think  I'm 
sorry  I  ever  married  him,  for  I  could  have  loved 
somebody  else  and  yet  looked  on  at  him.  Or 
couldn't  I  ?  You'll  say  I  couldn't.  Anyhow,  as  it 
is,  I've  come  too  near  to  him,  seen  too  much  of  him, 


374  QUISANT£. 

become  too  much  a  part  of  him.  You  might  think 
me  mad  if  I  told  you  he  often  seemed  to  be  with  me 
and  that  I'm  not  frightened,  but  admire  and  laugh 
as  I  used  ;  I  needn't  fear  any  more.  So  it  is  ;  and 
since  it  is  so,  how  can  I  come  to  you  ?  What  is  it 
they  call  widows  on  tombstones  and  in  the  Times  ? 
Relicts,  isn't  it  ?  I'm  literally  his  relict,  something 
he's  left  behind.  As  I  say,  the  only  thing.  He 
can't  come  back  for  me,  I  suppose.  But  I  feel  as  if 
he'd  pick  me  up  somewhere  sometime,  and  we  should 
begin  over  again,  and  go  on  together.  Where  to  I 
don't  know.  I  never  knew  where  he  would  end  by 
taking  me  to.  And  you,  dear  friend,  mustn't  make 
his  relict  your  wife.  It's  not  right  for  you,  it  wouldn't 
be  right  for  me.  We  should  pretend  that  nothing 
had  happened,  that  I'd  made  a  mistake,  that  it  was 
luckily  and  happily  over,  and  that  I  was  doing  now 
what  I  ought  to  have  done  in  the  beginning.  All 
that's  quite  false.  I  suppose  everybody  has  one 
great  thing  to  do  in  life,  one  thing  that  determines 
what  they're  to  be  and  how  they're  to  end.  I  did 
my  great  thing,  for  good  or  evil,  when  I  became  his 
wife.  I  can't  undo  it  or  go  back  on  it,  I  can't  be- 
come what  I  was  before  I  did  it.  I  can't  be  now 
what  you  think  me  and  wish  me  to  be.  His  stamp 
is  on  me. 

I  write  very  sadly ;  for  I  didn't  love  him.  And 
now  I  can  love  nobody.  I  shall  never  quite  know 
what  that  means.  Or  is  it  possible  that  I  loved  him 
without  knowing  it,  and  hated  him  sometimes  just 
because  of  that  ?  I  mean,  felt  so  terribly  the  times 
when  he  was — well,  what  you  know  he  was  some- 


A  RELICT.  375 

times.  I  find  no  answer  to  that.  It  never  was  what 
I  thought  love  meant,  what  they  tell  you  it  means. 
But  if  love  can  mean  sinking  yourself  in  another 
person,  living  in  and  through  him,  meaning  him  when 
you  say  life,  then  I  did  love  him.  At  any  rate, 
whatever  it  was,  there  it  is.  Yet  I'm  not  very  un- 
happy. I  have  a  feeling — it  will  seem  strange  to  you, 
like  all  my  feelings — that  I  have  had  a  great  share 
in  something  great,  that  without  me  he  wouldn't 
have  been  what  he  was,  that  I  gave  as  well  as  took, 
and  brought  my  part  into  the  common  stock.  We 
did  odd  things,  he  and  I  in  our  partnership,  things 
never  to  be  told.  My  poor  cheeks  burn  still,  and 
you  remember  that  I  cried.  But  we  did  great  things 
too,  he  and  I,  and  at  the  end  we  were  for  a  little 
while  together  in  heart.  It  wouldn't  have  lasted  ? 
Perhaps  not.  As  it  was  it  lasted  long  enough — till 
'  it  came ',  as  he  said,  and  he  died  asking  me  to  tell 
him  that  he  had  spoken  well.  I'm  very  glad  he  knew 
that  I  thought  he  had  spoken  well. 

So  out  of  this  rambling  letter  comes  the  end  of  it. 
Be  kind  to  me,  be  my  friend,  and  be  somebody  else's 
lover,  dear  Weston.  For  I  am  spoilt  for  you.  '  Her 
mad  folly' — that  was  what  you  thought  it.  Well, 
it  isn't  ended,  not  even  death  has  ended  it.  He 
reaches  me  still  from  where  he  is — Ah,  and  what  is 
he  doing?  I  can't  think  of  him  doing  nothing. 
Shall  I  hear  of  all  he's  done  some  day  ?  Will  he  tell 
me  himself,  and  watch  my  lips  and  my  eyes  as  I 
listen  to  him  ?  I  don't  know.  These  are  dreams, 
and  perhaps  I  wouldn't  have  them  come  true ;  for 
khe  might  do  dreadful  things  again.  But  I  can't 


3/6  QUISANT&. 

marry  you.  For  to  me  he  is  not  dead,  he  lives  still, 
and  I  am  his.  I  can  as  little  say  whether  I  like  it  as 
I  could  while  he  was  here.  But  now,  as  then,  it  is 
so ;  whether  I  like  it  is  little  ;  it  is  what  has  come  to 
me,  my  lot,  my  place,  my  fate,  the  end  of  me,  the 
first  and  last  word  about  me.  And — yes — I  am  con- 
tent to  have  it  so.  He  loved  me  very  much,  and  he 
was  a  very  great  man.  You'll  wonder  again,  but  I'm 
a  proud  woman  among  women,  Weston  dear.  Good- 
bye." 

Dick  Benyon  laid  down  the  letter,  and  pushed  it 
back  to  Weston  Marchmont. 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  he. 

THE  END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAR  Is  B514MX 
13WR-85RECC. 


Book  Slip-25m-9,'60CB2986s4)4280 


UCLA-Cotteg«  Library 

PR  4762  Q48 

Illl     Mill  I 


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